Demons Among Friends
by Kevyn Pieters
Summary: The story starts at the end of episode 3.12 “Amongst Friends” and follows the subsequent life and career of Peter Clifford. It deviates from series 4 – 6 as broadcast.
1. Chapter 1

**Demons Among Friends**

by Kevyn Pieters

_**Author's note: **This story starts at the end of Amongst Friends, the final episode in series 3, and follows the subsequent life and career of Peter Clifford._

_**Acknowledgments: **The brilliant writing of Kieran Prendiville and his creation of the wonderful village of BallyK and its priests and people are gratefully acknowledged as is the copyright of BBC and World Productions. I am grateful also to SwissMiss for her encouragement and to all the other BallyK fanfic writers from whom I have taken inspiration._

_There are some notes at the end of Chapter 6_

**Chapter 1: To go or to stay?**

Fr Peter Clifford, dressed in his check shirt, jeans and windcheater and with his rucksack on his back, had walked up the hill from Ballykissangel heading north in the general direction of Wicklow. Brendan Kearney had accompanied him out of the village, across the bridge and up to the road junction, and had then turned back to attend Kieran's christening party at the Quigley house. Peter had taken one last lingering look back at St Joseph's, its spire almost white in the sunlight against the lush green trees of the hillside behind, then leaned into his uphill walk with his side to side rhythm exaggerated by the tall rucksack. This was almost the exact reverse of how he had entered the town nearly three years before, except that then it was raining and he was excited about his new posting - and he had been given a lift in her blue Renault van. Now, he just felt empty and had no idea what he should do. Getting out had been all that he could think of. He hadn't even told anyone he was going; Brendan, of course, who had been keeping an anxious eye on his friend, had guessed.

Breasting the hill, Peter paused to catch his breath. He was not as fit as he used to be. He sat on a milestone by the roadside and looked around at the landscape, Sugarloaf mountain on the distant horizon to the north, the valley of the River Angel behind him. "Forty shades of green," he said to himself. Hearing the Wicklow bus coming up the hill, he walked a little way down the grassy slope to be out of sight from the road.

He caught sight of the lough where he and Assumpta had declared their love. Not the lough exactly, that was hidden from his view by the hill where he and her other friends had held the wake. But he could see that unmistakable grey granite scree which formed the far side of the lough, so he could tell exactly where the water was. In his mind's eye he could see the strand where he and Assumpta had walked, near the stream's entry to the lough, the granite cliff on the right and the grassy slope on the left seeming to narrow the water to a point in the southern distance.

He sat for hours, arms around his knees or legs outstretched and his shoulders resting against his rucksack. He looked around at the landscape and enjoyed the feel of the breeze and sun and the smell of the grass. He felt small and very detached but bound to the spot. The sensation was dreamily surreal. For no obvious reason, the words of the prayer to his Guardian Angel that he had learned as a child came to mind. 'Angel of God, my Guardian dear, to whom God's love commits me here, ever this day be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide.'

The sun was much lower in the sky and he felt a slight chill in the air as Eamon's head and woolly hat came into view as he came up the slope towards Peter.

"Good evening, Father."

"Eamon," he smiled weakly at the old man.

"Are you alright? I saw you from the lower field when I was checking the lambs, and you have been sitting here a long while."

"I'm walking towards Wicklow and stopped for a rest."

Looking towards the setting sun, he said, "Well, you'll not get far before dark."

"I've got my tent."

"If you don't mind my saying so, Father, this is not a good place to pitch a tent. It's very exposed round here."

"I'll find somewhere."

Eamon could tell that something was wrong. He knew of course that Assumpta Fitzgerald had died, a great loss he thought; she always had a smile and a pleasant word for him and never seemed to mind too much when he would spend a whole evening in the pub with just one diet cola and a single bag of crisps. He had known her almost from birth. And he knew that Father Clifford and Assumpta had been close friends, even if they did argue a lot. He had heard some strange gossip that he didn't understand between Kathleen Hendley and some customers that Fr Clifford was disgraced and that he was leaving. But could he really be _walking_ to his next parish? Eamon thought that, sitting there on the side of the hill, Fr Clifford resembled a wounded dog waiting, as some will, for its owner to come.

Eamon shook his head, and walked up to Peter. Taking his hat off and clutching it to his chest, he leaned down close to Peter and asked:

"Father, can I give you a bed for the night? It's not much but it's warm and dry, and you'll be able to set off in the morning with the whole day in front of you."

Standing up stiffly, Peter said, "That's very kind, Eamon. Yes, please." Peter pulled his now damp jeans into shape and reached for his rucksack.

"Come on then." Eamon called for his dog and the three set off down the grassy slope towards Eamon's farmhouse.

"This is your bedroom," said Eamon, apologetically. "It's cramped, I'm afraid."

"It's larger than I've been used to. I'll be fine. You're very kind."

The spare room was very rarely used, but it was still more or less tidy from when 'Naomi' had stayed during the Lily of Ballykissangel Festival the previous autumn.

"I'll see to some supper when I get back. I have to go and check some fences - some of my lambs have been wandering off and there's a fox or two about."

Peter realised that he did not want to be alone. "Can I come with you?"

Peter walked the boundaries with Eamon, helped lift the odd fence post back up, and held tools for him. It was almost dark when they got back to the farmhouse for their supper of bread and soup.

"Father, would you like to say Grace?"

Peter always felt a little uncomfortable with the way that people would defer to him in anything connected to religion, particularly when he was a guest in their own homes. In part it was because he abhorred self-importance in priests but also because he thought people should have the confidence to speak to God directly, not have a priest do it for them. Right now he felt this all the more because he had real doubts about how effective he could be as a priest in the future.

"Eamon, you've been very kind in bringing me into your home as a guest, to your supper table. Please would you?"

Eamon stumbled his way through the prayer and they both make the sign of the cross before sitting down. Peter made short work of his soup and Eamon refilled his bowl.

"If you don't mind my asking, Father, where were you going?"

"No idea - I just had to get out of town."

Eamon was amazed at this, couldn't fathom it at all. He was in awe of most priests. But he liked Fr Clifford: most times Fr Clifford had been friendly and patient with him, and he was the only priest to whom Eamon had ever dared put a question. Instinct told him that Fr Clifford was in some kind of trouble. Not being any kind of thinker, just a practical man, he said, "Well you can have a bed here for as long as you like. Use the phone if you like."

With a watery eyed smile, he said, "Thank you, Eamon. That's very kind."

- - - 888 - - -

In the pub, Dr Michael Ryan, Siobhan Mehigan, Brendan Kearney, and Padraig O'Kelly were speculating on what had become of Fr Clifford. Brendan told of his farewell to Peter the previous Saturday. "You never saw anyone so sad."

"Where was he going?"

"I have no idea. I asked him if he knew where he was going and all he would say was 'kinda'. Kathleen says that Fr Mac doesn't know either, and is furious with Peter for just going off."

Brendan had noticed that Michael Ryan had been looking pensive but not saying much.

"Michael, do you know anything - not professionally, I mean?"

"No, nothing at all. Sorry."

There was something in Michael's tone of voice. Brendan asked, "Are you worried about him?"

"Well, yes I am. Very. His life has been in a serious mess these last six months, what with that wretched affair over the statue, Assumpta marrying Leo and then his mother dying only a few weeks ago. I know that he was considering leaving the priesthood but when he came back from Manchester after the funeral there was a serenity about him, so I think that he had come to some decisions.

"Then, the night that Assumpta died, do you remember how happy each of them was, how the lights caught them holding hands across the bar and how Fr Mac took their behaviour in his stride? And then the extremity of his distress when she died? I think that they had decided to make their future together and that he was leaving the church - and Fr Mac knew and was reconciled to it. So, with the grief over the loss of his mother, and you know how close priests are to their mothers , the loss of his fiancée, the shock of seeing her die so cruelly, all his difficult decisions turned into chaos, the mixed feelings he must have had anyway about leaving the priesthood and the parish, he can't be far from a breakdown.

"He must be at serious risk of mental illness if he doesn't get help - and you know how he bottles up his feelings. I don't like to say this, but I doubt whether Fr MacAnally was being any help to him at all, more likely adding to the pressure and trying to use Peter's troubles to get rid of him. When I saw Peter the morning after Assumpta died, he clearly wished he were dead too. And that look was still there in his eyes at the wake. At Kieran's baptism he was very subdued, very unlike him. I don't suppose he's likely to harm himself, but I can sort of see him sitting on a hillside waiting for the angels to take him."

"Michael!" gasped Niamh, who had been serving at the other end of the bar but had come close enough to listen to the hushed conversation.

"What would you recommend for him?" asked Brendan, quietly.

- - - 888 - - -

Eamon entered the pub, took off his woolly hat, and, seeing Siobhan, went up to her.

"Siobhan, could I have a word with you?"

She was reluctant. "You know I can't go near your sheep."

"It's not my sheep. It's ... confidential."

"Oh, those pigs again."

"Yes," he said (lying). "Can we go over there?" And with that he walked down to the other end of the bar.

With a sigh, she heaved herself off her stool and followed him.

"I'm sorry, Siobhan it's not my pigs, but I do need your help." She gave him an exasperated look and was about to go back to her seat when he continued, "I have a guest staying with me and I need to buy some food from Hendley's. But if Kathleen sees me buying more than I usually do, she'll interrogate me. I'm that scared of her, I might give him away."

"Give who away?"

"I shouldn't say".

Siobhan got impatient. "Well if you can't ...Oh!" The penny dropped. "Do you mean Fr ..."

"Of course, I do!"

"Well in that case, have you made a list?"

Dr Ryan was puzzled as he saw Eamon looking furtively around the pub and then putting what looked like a piece of paper and some money into one of Siobhan's pockets. He wondered what was going on.

- - - 888 - - -

The telephone rang. Michael Ryan picked up the handset. "Dr Ryan's surgery."

"Michael, this is Siobhan. Fr Clifford is at Eamon Byrne's, but don't let on."

"That's good. How is he?"

"Difficult to say. At least he's eating and sleeping and he's not out in the hills. Eamon says that he's not very talkative and spends most of the time alone. He's been helping with odd jobs around the farm. But Eamon says that it breaks his heart to hear Peter crying in his sleep."

"Not surprising. It sounds as though he can't bear to stay and can't bear to go. Perhaps he will stay in the end. Anything I can do?"

"Not sure. I have told Eamon I'll help with any food or laundry. I've probably got the best excuse of any of us to be calling in."

"Well, let me know if there's anything I can do for either of them. If he's there for more than a day or two I'll drop by anyway - he can't expect not to be noticed!"

- - - 888 - - -

Siobhan was talking to Niamh over the bar, with Michael Ryan, Padraig O'Kelly and Brendan Kearney listening.

"Eamon said he looked like an injured animal when he found him sitting on the grass below the road. So he treated him like a sick pig - kept him warm, fed him, stroked him (well, not literally), talked to him, showed him he was loved, and let nature take its course."

"Trust Eamon to treat a priest like a pig!" said Niamh, missing the point.

Michael chipped in, "No, Niamh. Eamon _is_ on the right lines. Think about it. You and Brendan found that if you sought comfort from him or challenged him in any way, his instinct was to run away. He can't cope. Eamon knows that he's no good with words, so he lets his actions speak for him. I guess that's what Peter needs right now - actions that show he's not alone, that he's loved."

Brendan sighed, "You're right, Michael. The one person who could have helped him grieve for Assumpta was his mother. And the one person who could have helped him grieve for his mother was Assumpta. Which of us has shown him that kind of unconditional love? Eamon, in his own way. If he is going to stay then Eamon's is the example we've to follow, if Peter will just give us the chance."

"Well he is the best priest we've had," added Niamh, "and so easy to talk to, so helpful and such good fun."

"But that's the point," said Michael. "I'm no psychologist, but I'd say that those personality traits that make him approachable, caring and sympathetic, and willing to reach out, are the very same ones that make him very vulnerable. Fr Mac has a hide like a rhinoceros, but Peter, I think, has a skin more like a butterfly's wing."

"It's what we do and how we look after each other that matters," said Niamh, quietly, almost to herself.

"What was that?"

"It's what we do and how we look after each other that matters. I was remembering what Fr Clifford said at the wake."

Niamh continued, "Ambrose eventually told me what Fr Clifford had said to him to change his mind and drop the idea of being a priest instead of marrying me. First Fr Clifford tricked him into thinking that the statue that had nearly hit him was not after all the patron saint of priests, and then asked him 'why would you want to cut yourself off from one of the most rewarding experiences that life has to offer?' That's what Fr Clifford has done, all priests do. I had never thought about priests that way. It's not sex they forgo, it's companionship! But Fr Clifford's no loner. How can _he_ live like that?"

"_He_ can't," said Brendan, "and now he knows it."

"Peter would say that there's grace and there's prayer as well as the joy of serving, and that the priesthood is meant to involve sacrifice, but you're right, Brendan. That's why, I think, he became so dependent on this place and on friendship with Assumpta." Michael went on, "He told me once that it was always at the end of the day when the loneliness was most intense. I think that's why he so enjoyed helping Assumpta clear up after closing, until recently at least. You wouldn't expect an hour's collecting glasses and washing up would put a spring in your step, but for Fr Peter it did."

Niamh smiled confidentially as she asked, "Do you think they ever ...?"

"No, I'd say not," said Michael, giving Niamh a disapproving look. "There was an innocence about them, never anything furtive."

"That's what made them so delightful to watch," added Brendan.

"I know for a fact that Fr Mac had his 'spies and informers' watching them. He was desperate to catch him out. But nothing was ever reported."

They sipped their drinks in reflective silence.

"Well, if he does stay, it will be down to us to help keep his loneliness at bay and to show him that he is loved. Invite him here, to our homes, for meals, to overnight, to let him relax, to talk, you know, kick ideas around, have fun, be off duty." Michael looked around, and the others nodded their agreement. "And not make trouble for him with Fr Mac."

- - - 888 - - -

Michael Ryan drove into the yard at Eamon's farm. Eamon approached and said, as Michael leaned into the car to fetch his medical bag, "Good morning, Doctor Ryan. What can I do for you?"

"Actually, I have come to take a look at your bruised knee."

"What?"

"You bruised your knee and can't walk far or drive, so I have had to come out to you. Or that's what I told Kathleen or anyone else who asked," Michael added with a stage wink.

Eamon gave him a puzzled look. "Have you something in your eye?"

After an impatient sigh and adopting a confidential manner, Michael said, "Eamon, I've come to see your visitor."

"Oh, I suppose the whole town knows about him now."

"No, I think not. Siobhan told me and she's told only Ambrose and me. That's why I had to invent an excuse in case I was seen. So I said you had injured your knee. That's the story we stick to, OK?"

Eamon's broad gap-toothed grin showed that he had at last caught on to the deception. Adopting a severe limp as he walked around the car to where Dr Ryan was standing, he asked, "What's the treatment?"

Michael unlocked his medical bag and removed a support bandage and a can of Diet Coke. Holding up the bandage, Michael said, "Right knee! Make sure you wear it next time you go down to the village, and remember it's the right knee that's dickey." And then offering the can, he added, "Medicine, to be taken with food!"

"I'll take it with my lunch, Doctor!" he laughed.

"So, where's Fr Clifford?"

"He's over there, beyond the trees."

Peter was sitting on a fallen tree trunk, with his breviary open on his lap, but looking into the distance. He had been trying to pray the day's morning prayer. But a verse at the end of Psalm 87 had snatched his attention: "Your anger has overrun me, your terrors have broken me: they have flowed round me like water, they have besieged me all the day long. You have taken my friends and those close to me: all I have left is shadows." He recited the "Glory be" without conviction as his thoughts drifted away. The sound of footsteps approaching from behind him brought him back to the present.

He looked round. "Michael."

"Peter. Good to see you. How are you? OK if I sit down?"

"Yes, of course."

Peter moved along the tree trunk to make room. He looked over to Kilnashee and remembered. Michael followed his gaze. After a couple of minutes' companionable silence, Peter spoke.

"It's nice here, very peaceful. I can't think why I came here, though I'm glad I did. I'm in a kind of limbo - I haven't left, quite, and I haven't gone anywhere. I'm alright, I suppose. Though I feel as though I've been hit in the gut. I feel weak, no energy, I can't concentrate, I can't get warm. I feel overwhelmed by this intense ache inside. I can't bear the thought of being with people. I keep crying for no reason."

"That's shock. You've been through a very severe trauma. Are you sleeping? Are you eating?"

"I've no appetite, but I am managing to eat a little - Eamon feeds me on bread and his thick soups and stews. I sleep badly, nightmares and so on. Last night I woke up screaming. I couldn't remember what she looked like. Frightened poor old Eamon, I think."

"He's no stranger to tragedy himself, so he'll have a fair idea of what you're going through."

"Really?"

"Yes, many years back of course. His fiancée, childhood sweetheart, ditched him for a more prosperous farmer in Kilkenny. He took that hard. And a friend of his committed suicide a while ago. He wasn't always the recluse."

"Is grief always this painful?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it is."

"Well, I'll not be so glib with my comforting the bereaved in future."

"So, might you continue in the ministry?"

"Michael, I just don't know. "

"What drew you to the priesthood in the first place?"

"I was always active in the parish from when I was old enough to be an altar boy. I did all the usual things, server, reader, youth club, retreats, Eucharistic minister, St Vincent de Paul. When I went up to Cambridge, I read Astronomy because that was my favourite subject and I was pretty hot at physics. The Chaplaincy there kept my faith in step with my science. When I began to think about a career, there it was, as with Elijah, not in the earthquake or the fire but the gentle voice in the breeze. Whenever I thought about the future, the gentle voice in the breeze was always there. My mother wasn't surprised, she always said I was different from the others, a natural conciliator. My father was very anti, but we never saw eye to eye on anything, so perversely that encouraged me."

"Did you not have any girlfriends at university?"

"Oh, yes. Several. Almost got engaged. Michael, does the pain really ease with time?"

"I believe so. Most people say so."

"I've told people so, too. The trouble is I don't really want the pain to ease because now it's my only link with Assumpta. But it's so crippling ... How are the people in the village doing, Niamh, Ambrose, Brendan and Siobhan, yourself?"

"Niamh is bearing up, we all are."

"That's good. I feel so guilty at leaving you all. In my head I knew I should stay to help, but in my heart I felt nothing. I was numb. I'd nothing to give."

"What's this 'in my heart', 'in my head'?"

"Oh, that was Assumpta. When we began to come clean with our feelings for each other, she asked me what I wanted. I said that I had to think. She replied that it wasn't what was in my head that she needed to hear."

"Sounds like Assumpta. But you're quite wrong. You might not have had much to give because you were grief-stricken yourself, but you _did give _what you had. Do you remember what you said at the wake? _'__It's what we do and how we look after each other that matters'_."

"Yes. It was trite. I wish I had been able to think of something more profound to say."

"_You_ might think it was trite, but you set people thinking: about the future, how to behave, how to respond. You'd given people a lead on how to behave, how to evaluate. "

"You're kidding me!"

"No. Seriously, Peter. You gave people a way forward. You told people that it's what they actually do that matters."

"Yeah, yeah, Matthew 21:29."

"No, Peter! I'm not being cynical here. Take me for one. I'm the one that let her die."

"Oh no, Michael, that's not fair ..."

"Well, OK, but I couldn't save her just the same. The thought that I had in a sense wasted a young life was unbearable. You might not have meant what you said in quite this way, but reflecting on your words made me see that I had cared for her, and that I could best respond to her death by going on caring for those who knew her and by improving my know-how - I'm importing a miniature defibrillator for my medical bag. And your words showed me that in no sense was her short life wasted. She had little enough happiness in her life, but if you aren't blinded by her anger at the church and priests like Fr Mac or by her argumentative style, if you look at what she actually did and not at what she said, there is a long record of kindnesses and putting herself out for people, and not just her friends, and not seeking credit for it either. If she had never lived, we would have been the poorer."

"Yes, I s'pose so."

"And it's not just me. We have all been talking about it in the pub and round at Brendan's."

"Brendan's?"

"Yes, the lawyers handling Assumpta's estate are allowing Niamh to keep the pub going; it'll be worth more that way. But she can't open it every day, so when it's closed, we congregate at Brendan's. Kathleen's making a mint in off-sales."

"The six-pack defence rides again," said Peter to himself. "Why couldn't she be revived?"

"I don't know, to be honest. It could be that she took the shock between her arms so that the current passed across her heart and severely damaged it, or there might have been some incipient defect in her heart, or perhaps the fall caused a brain injury."

"I wish I hadn't made her so unhappy."

"I wouldn't say that you did, but if you did you more than made up for it by making her last days happy. We've been talking about that, too. After the court hearing, Brendan reckons he had never seen her as happy, as if a cloud had been lifted. You gave her that."

"Yeah, but too late." Peter paused, his face furrowed with the effort of teasing his thoughts into words. "You know, one of the things that hurts the most is the time I wasted. If I had known how much she loved me, I might have been able to decide sooner to leave the priesthood. But, I just don't see how I could have known."

"How could you? You could hardly court her openly to test the water, so to speak. Brendan and I had wondered if we should have got the two of you together and told you. But we weren't absolutely sure."

"No. More's the pity. How on earth am I going to live without her?"

Seeing tears streaming down Peter's cheeks, Michael put a hand on his shoulder, "For myself, it's a blessed relief that you anointed her."

"Because you couldn't revive her? You were worried she wasn't in a state of grace?"

"That's about it."

"Yeah, I'm glad I did too. At the time, when Fr Mac told me to give the Sacrament of the Sick, I had this powerful flashback to when she drove me to Tommy Hassett's deathbed. On the way, she had said that she wouldn't want a priest at her deathbed, though I'd probably come anyway even knowing that I wasn't wanted. She was very, very scathing. I got to Tommy's place too late, ten minutes too late."

"I remember. I was there. I was amazed to see Assumpta had driven you. But she watched you through the window, you know."

"Really? Afterwards, she asked me what difference ten minutes made and I said that it made a difference to Tommy's wife. She was quiet after that. On the way back, she even apologised to me. I just wonder if she might have changed her mind. But it was Niamh saying 'What if she needs it anyway?' that broke through the fog of my thoughts. I had to help her make her peace with God if in her last conscious seconds that was what she wanted - it was for the merciful Lord to judge, not for me."

"Well, it's a consolation for all of us."

"It's all the consolation there is for me."

"You've family back in Manchester."

"Not sure they'd be happy to see me back."

"Why ever not?"

"My brothers have been teasing me for years about celibacy but when I told them that I might be leaving the priesthood, they were very cool about it. My mother said that I should follow my heart and she'd support me, but I could tell that deep down she was disappointed."

"You told her then?"

"It took her all of five minutes to realise that something was wrong with me. I really didn't want to burden her, she was so weak. But she winkled it out of me. It was a great relief, I must say, to be able to speak about it. But from then on, my brothers were distant with me."

"Why? What difference would it make to them? Or was it your mother's ticket to heaven?"

"I dunno. No, she didn't share in that superstition. Perhaps they were thinking of the rows between Mum and Dad over my ordination, the sacrifice she made by always sticking up for me. I think it affected their marriage. One of my sisters-in-law thought I was scandalous - she's more Roman than the Pope, a bit like Kathleen."

"So, no welcome in Manchester, then?"

"Well, Andrew and his wife might let me stay, but my best bet would probably be Fr Randall, my old parish priest. He's even more of a conservative than Fr Mac, but he has a generous heart."

Peter's breviary had slid off his knees onto the ground. Michael leaned down and picked it up.

"Are you able to pray?"

"I try. It's a dry experience just now."

"Is the call still there? The 'gentle voice in the breeze', I mean?"

"Yes, I think so. Now and again. But it's different. It sounds different. Or I'm hearing it differently. Or I've changed. So many distracting thoughts. I'm really not sure. I try to make sense of it all. What it means."

"Why Assumpta died, d'you mean?"

"No, not 'why', what her being taken away from us means, for her friends, for me. I can accept that I'll never know why she died, not in this life anyway. Had she completed all that she was called to do, am I being punished for thinking of leaving, is this to improve my skills in bereavement counselling?" (A rare smile from Peter here, shared by Michael.) "No, I can only think that our love was good. As she would have said, 'it was meant to be'. She wasn't meant to die. God is probably as upset as we are. Anyway, she's in his arms now - I hope and pray. I feel so alone, shut out ... Oh, Mum .."

With that anguished sigh, Peter flooded tears, leaned forward with his face in his hands and slipped off the tree trunk heavily onto the ground. He was convulsed in tears. Michael moved sideways and, leaning forward pulled Peter's shoulders against his knee and held him as he shook violently, holding his head up to ease his breathing between tormented cries. It was all of ten minutes before the torrent of tears and incoherent words subsided and Peter was calm again.

"I'm sorry," said Peter at last, looking up at Michael.

Michael just shook his head and smiled weakly, as much as he could manage with a damp collar and a tear-stained face.

Peter struggled back onto the tree-trunk. "What does it all mean? What is God's plan B? Surely we can't just carry on as if nothing has happened?"

"No, but perhaps carrying on is part of it?"

"May be. May be."

After a pause, Michael looked at his watch and stood up with alarm.

"Peter, I'm afraid I'll have to go. Evening surgery."

"I'll walk with you back to the yard." Peter got unsteadily to his feet and the two walked slowly up the field and into the yard.

After he had started his car, Michael wound down the window and said, "Look after yourself now, Peter. Plenty of hot sweet tea!"

"Bye, Michael. And thanks for the company."

- - - 888 - - -

"What would you do, Mary?" No reply. "If you were me." Mary wasn't interested. "It comes down to staying here and in the priesthood or going home and finding something else to do with my life." Still no answer. "But the nearest I have to a home is here in BallyK. There is nothing really for me any more in Manchester." Mary seemed to like the sound of his voice but took no interest in what he actually said. He noticed that there was one more feed pellet left in the bucket, so he held it over the pen, and Mary came across to eat it. Then she put her head between the rails for Peter to scratch between the ears. Eamon had shown him how to do it, along with the other details of the sow's routine before he had left.

"Ah, Fr Clifford. You've made a conquest there! She's not that friendly with everyone."

"Siobhan, how are you? Nice to see you."

"I'm fine, ...er... Peter. Where's Eamon? I have his shopping in the Landrover."

"He left for the market with a couple of pigs. So, it's you that's been keeping us supplied?"

"Well, Eamon was worried about giving you away. How are you? What are you doing here? Can I help in any way?" The questions spilled over.

"I'm not sure. I'm beginning to sleep better than I have for ages and I'm eating a little better, too, and getting some exercise. What am I doing? - not sure how to describe it. I've sort of pressed the 'pause' button. Life is on hold. It's not what I intended, it just happened. All I could think of at first was that I had to get away, away from people. Eamon's looking after me. How are you really Siobhan, and the baby, and Brendan?"

"The baby, he's doing fine. I'm so glad you encouraged me to keep him. Brendan's OK, though Assumpta's death has hit him hard. She was like a daughter to him. But he's a bit of a cold fish. It's not that he's hurt so much as it's made him question what he wants out of life. Me? It's keeping busy and putting one foot in front of the other. We all talk about her a lot (and you, too) which helps. You should come and join in!"

"No, I don't think I could do that."

"Assumpta wouldn't want you to mope about for ever. You know, 'Have you no homes to go to?'!"

"That's just it. Hers was the only semblance of a home I had."

"Sparrows have their nests, foxes have their holes, but ..."

"Yeah, that's the priesthood alright. There was a prayer by Cardinal Newman we used to say. It came back to me a couple of days ago. I've been saying it. It ends, 'Keep my heart open to following Jesus' way of serving others in love and to the promptings of the Holy Spirit.' Will you ask everyone to pray for me? I can't stay at Eamon's for much longer and I am going to have to decide what to do."

"We're praying for you already, but I'll ask them to pray harder! What are your options?"

"To go or to stay."

"Stay in Ireland?"

"If I stay in Ireland, it would have to be BallyK. My heart would be here in any case. If I go from here it would have to be Salford or my bishop would kick up. I just don't know if I have got the strength to be a priest in BallyK when just about everything and everyone and everywhere reminds me of Assumpta and the hopes we had and the unfairness of it all and ... and above all my stupidity. I couldn't bear to be a source of ridicule."

"I don't think even your critics think of you as stupid or ridiculous, just bad! I must go. I've a mare to inseminate! I'll leave the shopping just inside the door."

"Ahem. Goodbye, Siobhan. Thanks for the chat. Give them all my love."

"Bye, Father. Look after yourself. Pray for Brendan and Niamh."

"Yeah, I will." To himself: "And Kieran. And you."

- - - 888 - - -

Eamon looked up as he heard a car pull onto his yard.

"Ah, Eamon."

"Good morning, Gard Egan. What can I do for you?" He was worried now. "Have I done something?"

Laughing, he said, "No, I had a report that you'd had an accident, injured your knee, and I've come to see if there are any health and safety problems with your machinery." Ambrose said this while tapping his nose.

Catching on, and limping on the wrong leg, Eamon said, "Ah yes, my knee. He's in the field over there (pointing), walking back and forth reading his ... er ... office."

"Fr Clifford!"

"Ambrose. How are you? And Niamh and Kieran?"

"They're fine, Father. How are you?"

"I'm doing a little better. Are they really fine? How is Niamh coping?"

"Well, to be honest, she is taking Assumpta's death very hard. She is clinging on to Kieran like a lifejacket. She hardly puts him down."

"I'm sorry, I know I should have stayed. I just couldn't."

"Father ... Peter, we know. We know now. We understand. I'm just so grateful that you stayed to baptise Kieran."

"Niamh was very persuasive, and it was the least I could do. Anyway, baptisms are just about the most enjoyable ceremonies that priests get to perform, so much joy and hope for the future. It was good to see life going on, to look to the future for your family and friends and to see the happiness all around, even if I couldn't feel it for myself."

"My father-in-law and Fr Mac were talking about you at the reception. Brian said that he was glad that Fr Mac had steered him away from the priesthood because had he been in your shoes he'd have given way to temptation at the first opportunity. He really thinks highly of you, a bit of a contrast to his cynical view of most priests, including Fr Mac. D'you know that he actually thought that it was Fr Mac that had 'lubricated' the Child of Prague statue? Well, Fr Mac said that he thought you'd brought all your problems on yourself and that he couldn't understand why you wouldn't just accept his instructions and do as he told you!"

"Oh, Fr Mac ... It's not as if Cilldargan parish is well run. There is nothing for the youngsters, nothing for the elderly, nothing for families with children, lots of people can't get to Mass, the liturgy is so uninspiring for most people, and the wider diocese might as well not exist for all the contact we have. And the involvement of lay people is minimal apart from cleaning the churches. If I were to stay, I'd have to work at that, and I just can't face the thought of the constant criticism and undermining from Fr Mac and his ignorant cronies like Kathleen Hendley. They seem to have no idea of what a modern parish should be like. Not that there's enough money at St Joseph's, and that's something else that needs working on."

"I know what you mean. The parish in Templemore where I was at Garda College was much more lively and just about everything was run by laity."

"Where is that?"

"West of here, in County Tipperary. Father, I have to go. I'm due to meet Superintendent Foley in Cilldargan in an hour. The main reason I called was to tell you that if you do have to go away, then you go with our love and our thanks. And we hope that you'll keep in touch with us because we'd like to visit you if you can't visit us. Niamh and me, we've so much to thank you for. But we hope you'll find a way to stay."

"That's kind of you, Ambrose, but all I did was marry you."

"Oh, no, Father. We've been comparing notes. We'd never talked about it before. How you advised Niamh against our living together but said that you wouldn't judge her if we did, how, when I told you of my anxiety about it, you suggested to me that we just leave one thing out, how you talked some sense into me when I had cold feet and thought I had a vocation, how you helped Niamh get over her miscarriage, the list goes on and on! Siobhan told us how it was you that gave her the confidence to go through with her pregnancy. Brendan told us how you broke through his disillusion with his career when he was thinking of moving to a school in Dublin."

"OK. But what I keep asking myself is whether I need to be a priest to help people in this informal sort of way."

"I'd say you do. I can't say whether you'd have the insights without the life of prayer but I doubt if the opportunities would arise or whether people would let you into their lives without your being a priest."

"What have you been reading, Ambrose?"

"Oh, you've found me out. When I was thinking of being a priest, before you talked some sense into me, I ordered a couple of booklets from the Vocations Office. They took several weeks to arrive, by which time I'd given up the idea, so I didn't read them then. Niamh found them, and, because you have been so much in our thoughts recently, we read them. I think you have given us, Assumpta's friends I mean, a glimpse of the sacrifice that's part of being a priest. You don't see it with priests like Fr Mac and the others who like to lord it over us. I'd say that was one of the things that attracted Assumpta: she'd not seen it before in a priest."

Peter sighed, "Ambrose ..."

"And I've an apology to make. I was angry with you."

Peter looked puzzled.

"When I found you at the grotto, I was angry. I thought that you were being selfish thinking that you were the only one grieving. And I'm ashamed to admit that I thought that you had broken your commitment to celibacy. I know now that wasn't true and wasn't likely to be either. And I know now that your grief is far and away ..."

"Ambrose, you don't need to ..."

"Father, I do. I do. I think that I might need your help ... with Niamh, I mean. That's partly why I want to keep in touch if you don't stay."

With real concern in his voice, he said, "What's happened, Ambrose? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm not sure. It's just that I get a sense that Niamh is not content. You know how her mood swings about and she sometimes says careless things that hurt. Well, I think the business entrepreneur is in her blood. She doesn't want to be like my mother was. She can't see herself as just a Garda wife. And I just want her to be my girlfriend again."

"Wives invariably are disappointed when their husbands won't change, and husbands invariably are disappointed when their wives do change."

"There you are again, Father, pointing us in the right direction. Is that a quotation?"

"Yes, it's from a novelist, Paul Burke."

"I've never heard of him."

"He's an English writer. One of my contemporaries at Allen Hall was at school with him in London."

"Bye, Father."

"Ambrose, one last thing ..."

"Yes, Father?" he said, looking serious.

Peter grinned and said, "If you keep calling me 'Father', I shall have to call you 'Garda Egan'."

"Aha, point taken. Bye, Peter." With a cheery wave, Ambrose got into his car.

Peter leaned down to the car window. "Bye, Ambrose. God bless. Love to Niamh and Kieran."

- - - 888 - - -

Fr Clifford was in Eamon's car on the way to Wicklow where he planned to get a fast bus to Dublin and a ferry from there back to England. He had come to the conclusion that there really was important work that needed to be done in BallyK, and that he ought to stay. He thought he could just about survive all the reminders of Assumpta that would abound. But he just could not face the prospect of being exposed to any more of Fr Mac's depressing antagonism and cynicism. He had wanted to take the local bus to Wicklow, but Eamon had insisted on driving him. They had been on the road for half an hour, moving somewhat slowly.

"Eamon, can you stop the car."

"Are you feeling unwell, Father?"

"I can't go on. I can't leave. I can't ... Can you take me back to BallyK?"

With a broad grin and a sigh of relief, Eamon said, "Father, that I can."

- - - 888 - - -

Peter knocked on the door of the Garda house.

"Father Clifford!"

"Niamh. Nice to see you. How are you? And Kieran?" In a quieter, more diffident tone, he added, "Sorry I left you."

"Are you staying, then?"

"Yes, I think so. I want to. Well, I want to try, anyway."

"You'd better come down to the kitchen. Kieran's missed you. Have you eaten?"

- - - 888 - - -

Peter had moved the cruets and the chalice and patten from the credence table to the edge of the altar as he was not expecting to have a server for the early morning Mass, and was setting out the Missal and Lectionary.

Kathleen hurried into the church, saying, "Sorry, I'm late, Father." Then seeing Peter, she stopped dead. "I thought..." Then, her expression turned from open-mouth surprise to a pursed-lipped scowl. "What are _you_ doing here? Fr MacAnally said that you had gone. We are having a new priest."

Peter had thought that this might be what Fr Mac had been planning. He had been very terse when Peter had phoned to say that he was back and would resume his duties at St Joseph's.

"I have had no exeat or letter of reassignment and I still have faculties for the diocese. It _is_ the bishop who appoints priests, you know? So, I am still your priest for the foreseeable future."

"Ha!" With that she turned abruptly and walked, almost ran, down the aisle and turned right towards the door.

Peter called after her. "Kathleen, you know whose house this is. It's not me you're insulting by storming off in a huff!" It was just as well that there were no other parishioners present to hear this exchange.

She paused. Then turned back and knelt in a pew towards the back of the church - normally she would take a place near the front.

Peter walked down to her and in a quiet voice said, "You know that hate and anger are serious sins, don't you?"

"Yes, ... Father," she said apprehensively.

"Would you like me to give you absolution?"

Looking up at him with total surprise on her face, reluctantly she replied, "Yes, Father."

"For your penance, say a decade of the rosary for the repose of the soul of Assumpta Fitzgerald."

Kathleen made a spluttering sound, but Peter looked intently at her, eyebrows raised. "Kathleen?"

"Yes, Father."

Peter placed his left hand on her right shoulder and made the sign of the cross over her with his right, while saying the brief words of absolution.

Walking up to the sanctuary and genuflecting before turning towards the sacristy, Peter thought, "Oh Lord, I set her up for that."

He walked back to Kathleen. "Kathleen, if I provoked you, I'm sorry. Forgive me?"

Looking now completely baffled, she nodded.

"Thank you. There is no intention set for this Mass, so I'll offer it for _your_ intentions."

Peter recited his preparatory prayers while he vested in the sacristy for Mass. He tied the cincture around the alb and stole and noticed how slack the cincture was. He had to make a new knot. "I _have_ lost some weight." Pulling the chasuble over his head and balancing the shoulders, he walked out onto the sanctuary on the stroke of 8:00. There were two in the congregation. By the Gloria there were four, and by the Creed five. The Creed was optional on weekdays but Peter felt the need to recite it. There was much in Catholic teaching that he was uncomfortable with, but he felt reassured by the full assent he could give to the summary of belief handed down by the Fathers at Nicea sixteen centuries before.

After Mass, Peter alone in the church once again, knelt before the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, but his prayers were interrupted by Fr MacAnally.

"Ah, Fr Clifford, I thought I might find you here."

In a resigned voice Peter said as he got off his knees, "Good morning, Father. How are you?"

"Well, thank you. And how are _you_?"

"I'll survive."

"You know I'm having you transferred. I have a new man coming. You're to phone the bishop to find out your new appointment."

"No, Father."

"What?"

"I'm _staying_, Father."

In a raised voice, he said, "You're ..."

"I've already spoken to the bishop, yesterday in fact. I'm staying."

"But you went. You said you were leaving!"

"Not to you, I didn't. I explained to the bishop that I had needed a few days to gather myself after the traumas I had been through. He gave me the impression that he rather thought you should have taken the initiative and arranged leave of absence for me."

"God! It's only a few days since you were telling me that you were going to leave the priesthood. How can you ..."

In a firmer but still patient tone of voice, he said, "Father that was a positive decision, not a negative one." In a softer tone, he added, "But the positive option is no longer there. So I have to be positive about the priesthood."

"You will come with me to the bishop in Wicklow and we'll get this sorted out. You can't just upset the arrangements I've made with him."

"No, Father. As I said, I have already spoken to him, and to my own bishop in Salford as well. He, too, wants me to stay here. But, you must excuse me. I'll be late for my house calls."

"What do you mean? The monthly rota of house visits is up to date, I checked last week."

"I'm making some changes. I'm visiting on a fortnightly basis from now on, and as soon as I can recruit some lay Eucharistic Ministers, I want weekly Holy Communion for the housebound."

This conversation was not going at all how Fr Mac had expected and he was becoming angry. Almost shouting, now, he insisted, "You'll do no such thing without my approval!"

"Father, I'm a priest, not a bloody altar boy!" Peter paused and, calming down, added, "Excuse me. Sorry."

With that, Peter turned away from Fr Mac and walked up to the tabernacle. He removed from his pocket the pouch containing the pyx, unlocked the tabernacle, genuflected reverently, lifted the veil and lid of the ceborium, counted out six then another two consecrated hosts and put them in the pyx, replaced the ceborium, genuflected, then closed and locked the tabernacle. He put the pyx inside the pouch and hung it round his neck and tucked it into the breast pocket of his shirt. As he passed Fr Mac he placed his right hand on his breast, the traditional sign that a priest is carrying the Blessed Sacrament and does not wish to speak. Fr Mac fumed in silence.

Leaving the church, he almost collided with Ambrose Egan.

"Ah, Fa ... Peter. Are you all right? Niamh was expecting you to come for breakfast after Mass."

"Yes. Thanks. Yes, I'm fine. Fr MacAnally kept me."

"So I heard."

"You heard all that?"

"Afraid so. Is he always like that with you?"

"More often than I'd like."

"Why do you put up with it?"

"Ambrose, this is my ... I want to make this village my home."

Ambrose was not sure what to say, afraid to say anything that might upsets Peter's delicate equilibrium.

"Will you have breakfast?"

"Thanks, Ambrose, but I'm really not hungry."

"How many calls do you have?"

"Four."

"Well I can drive you. It's one way of seeing around my beat! Will you come for a quick coffee first? Niamh and Kieran would love to see you - make sure you're still here!"

"Blues and twos?"

Ambrose replied laughing, "I don't think so! That's reserved for maternity runs!" With that, he strode off down the hill towards the Garda house, shoulders swinging from side to side, with Peter stepping out to keep up.

Later in the day, Peter telephoned Fr MacAnally:

"Father, will you be attending your nephew's ordination the week after next?"

Coldly, he said, "Of course."

"In that case, can we share the drive to Maynooth?"

"We may _not_!"

"Oh. I'll share a car with Padraig O'Kelly and Ambrose Egan, then."

Surprised, he said, "You and they're invited?"

"Yes, after the mineshaft rescue last Christmas, we became good friends."

Fr Mac put the phone down without further comment.

- - - 888 - - -

It was Sunday Mass, Peter's first since his return. The gospel reading was from Luke 13, about the Galileans slaughtered by Pilate and the eighteen killed by the falling tower.

He had celebrated weekday Masses and had found it difficult to focus and particularly to keep his voice under control. He had explained that he was not feeling well and had a weak voice and so would say quietly those parts for which it was permissible. He had considered omitting the Sunday homily, but had thought that doing so would bring down further pressure on him. His short homily concluded:

"Do you not think that they would have lived their last days differently had they known that they were to die that day? I can think of two lessons we can draw from this Gospel reading, as well as from the recent tragedy in our own village. Firstly, we don't always deserve everything that happens to us in this life. Secondly, and far more important, if there is someone you have hurt, apologise _today_; if someone has hurt you, forgive them _today_; if there is something for which you need absolution, ask the priest _today_; (taking a deep breath) if there is someone you love, tell them _today_. You, or they, or I, might not be here tomorrow. We know not the hour nor the day."

He turned to leave the pulpit but stopped and faced the congregation again.

"And, if you have a piece of gossip you are bursting to share today, … it would be better to leave it unsaid."

28


	2. Chapter 2

**Demons Among Friends**

by Kevyn Pieters

**Chapter 2: Pastoral Initiatives**

Ambrose had driven Peter and Padraig to St Patrick's College, Maynooth, for Timothy Wheen's ordination to the priesthood. As the College Chapel was already crowded when they arrived they had split up in order to find seats. After the ordination ceremony, Peter was standing at the back of the chapel with Ambrose and Padraig. There was still a crowd around the sanctuary. Fr Tim had quite a few takers for his offer of the new priest's blessing. The person just being blessed was his mother, Fr MacAnally's sister. After she had kissed his hands, Fr Tim went over to the altar and came back with a small white cloth, which he presented to her.

Ambrose asked Peter, "Is that the winding cloth that bound his hands?"

"Yes ..."

Padraig cut in, "I couldn't see that part of the ceremony from where I was sitting."

Peter explained. "When the bishop said the prayer 'consecrate and sanctify these hands that whatsoever they shall bless may be blessed, and whatsoever they shall consecrate be consecrated and sanctified', Tim held out his hands like this--" (Peter demonstrated, palms facing up, palms and little fingers touching) "--and the bishop made a cross with chrism from each thumb to the opposite index finger and then rubbed chrism into each palm. Then Tim joined his hands palm to palm and the cloth was wrapped around to keep them together."

Ambrose asked, "But why is the cloth given to the mother?"

"It's a tradition. I suppose it reflects the traditional thinking that it's the mother who has the greater role in bringing up young children in the faith. So, it's to the credit of the mother that her son has responded to the call. When the mother dies, the cloth is placed in the coffin next to her hands."

"Did you give yours to your mother?"

"Yes, but I still have it, sadly."

"How come?"

With a hint of bitterness in his voice, he explained, "My sister-in-law, the ultra-traditional one, removed it from my mother's coffin without telling me, and gave it back to me after the funeral. She knew I was thinking of leaving the priesthood, and she didn't think that it would be fitting for my mother to be buried with it in those circumstances."

"That must have upset you."

"It did."

"What will you do with it?"

"Keep it for now. I have some ideas."

"Peter!" Fr Timothy Wheen grabbed Peter's arm. "Thanks for coming. It's great to see you again." Turning to Padraig and shaking his hand, he added, "Thanks to you, too. How's that boy of yours? Been down any mine shafts lately?"

"No, Father. He's becoming more sensible by the day. He checks on me when I'm working under cars! Congratulations, Father. Beautiful ceremony. Fr Clifford's been explaining it to us."

Shaking Ambrose's hand, he said, "Ambrose, how's your little one?"

"Congratulations, Father. Kieran's doing fine, quite a lot bigger now."

"Good. And how's the gorgeous Assumpta?"

Tim's smile vanished as he saw Peter's stricken expression and the looks of alarm on the faces of Ambrose and Padraig. Ambrose stepped over to Peter, put an arm around his shoulders and turned him away from Tim and Padraig. He spoke quietly to him, facing him and now holding his upper arms, seeming to support him. Ambrose looked over at Tim and Padraig and said, "We're going outside for some fresh air. We'll see you at the reception."

Padraig whispered to Tim, "She's dead. A month ago. Electric shock in the pub. He was there, saw it all. He anointed her. It happened just after he'd decided to leave the priesthood and they'd decided to marry. He's heartbroken. His mother had died only weeks before. We nearly lost him too."

Tim was aghast, both at the tragic events and at his unknowing clumsiness. "Dear God! What an awful thing to happen. May they rest in peace. Peter must be devastated. You said you nearly lost him too?"

"Yeah. The evening she died, he went with the body to the mortuary in Cilldargan. The Gardai found him the following morning at the grotto outside the village looking like a drowned cat - he'd walked all the way back in the dark and pouring rain dressed only in his clerical suit. He was lucky not to have hypothermia. He stayed only a couple of days, to do Kieran's baptism, then slipped away with all his worldly goods in his rucksack. One of our hill farmers found him in the hills and took him in. He was gone for about ten days. Your uncle was beside himself with anger at Fr Clifford's disappearance."

"Congratulations, Timothy." Another priest had come over.

"Padraig, this is Fr Hugh Johns, the Episcopal Vicar for Priests. Father, may I introduce you to Padraig O'Kelly. Padraig runs the garage in Ballykissangel, where I did my final placement last Christmas."

They shook hands. "Pleased to meet you, Mr O'Kelly."

"Fr Timothy rescued my son from an old mine shaft while he was with us, on Christmas Day."

"Hidden talents! Tell me, Timothy, who was that priest I saw being led out?"

"That was Peter Clifford, the curate at Ballykissangel. I'm afraid that I put my foot in it. I asked after a mutual friend not knowing that she had died in tragic circumstances just recently."

"Yes, I'd heard about that. How is he?"

Padraig pulled a face and rocked his hand, fingers splayed out, to indicate that Peter's state was finely balanced.

"I'd like to speak to him. Timothy, could you introduce us later?"

"Yes, of course. I need to apologise for my blunder, too."

Padraig intervened. "Father, I hope you don't mind my saying this. Be careful what you say: he's barely getting by. Long-winded sympathy upsets him. Get him a drink, he can cope better with that."

Outside, the wind was ruffling their hair as Peter and Ambrose leaned against the tower next to the chapel.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that. I didn't have any breakfast. Got carried away saying my prayers!"

"Well, people seem to drifting over to the buffet lunch. Shall we go and get some food inside you?"

"Good idea."

Peter was standing, holding in his left hand a plate full of sandwiches, vol au vents, crisps and cocktail sausages, while eating with his right hand, and with a half-empty glass of wine in his jacket side pocket.

"Fr Clifford! Fr Timothy Wheen pointed you out to me. I'm Hugh Johns, the Episcopal Vicar for Priests for the archdiocese. I've been hoping for an opportunity to meet you."

After some hurried chewing and swallowing, he managed, "Pleased to meet you, Father."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to get in the way of your lunch."

"My breakfast."

"Oh. Tell me, how are you finding Ireland, your parish, compared with Manchester."

"Well it's very different. It's a rural parish for one thing. But expectations do seem very low: there's nothing for the youth, the elderly, families with young children. And the place seems so cut off, from the wider church, I mean. In Manchester, the bishop always sent pastoral letters to be read out on major feasts. Ad clerum letters seemed to arrive weekly, with frequent updates to the clergy handbook. Here, the only diocesan paperwork I've got is a parish copy of the diocesan directory that's five years' old. In my three years in the parish, I have'nt seen a single episcopal visitation for confirmations, etc. In my home diocese, if the bishop is not available, the parish priest administers Confirmation. The holy oils can't have been renewed for years, they are so congealed, they ought to have a health warning on them! Dublin's only 45 miles away, but for all our awareness of the diocese, we might as well be on the Moon!"

Fr Hugh stood there with an amazed look on his face. He could barely believe the content of what Peter had just said. He was surprised too at Peter's manner, how he began to speak very rapidly and with increasing pitch. Peter realised that he must have sounded nearly hysterical.

"I'm sorry, Father. I'm a bit tense and on edge. I've been thinking about these things and what I can do about them perhaps a bit too obsessively just recently. Lost my sense of proportion."

"Peter--" (he took his arm) "--I do know what's been happening. I'm dreadfully sorry. We're on your side, you know. I'm so glad you've decided to stay. We need men like you in Ireland, particularly now. If there is anything I can do to help, you must let me know."

"A new parish priest?" Peter said with a weak but cheeky smile.

"Ah, that's one I can't do. But I can make sure that you get the archbishop's pastoral and ad clerum letters, and all the handbooks. Normally they're sent to parish priests, who are supposed to disseminate the information. I'll put you on the mailing list directly and get copies of the last year's mailings for you."

"Thanks."

"What ideas do you have?"

"Well, I want to train up some Eucharistic ministers to help me with visits to the housebound and I want a portable Mass kit so that I can do house Masses for some of the remoter elderly folk, particularly in bad weather. I want to get or rent a minibus to bring some of the less mobile people in for Sunday Mass and perhaps some youth projects, and I want to get some musical instruments and some tuition organised to encourage youngsters to form a liturgical music group. Then I want ..." Peter realised that he was doing it again.

"Good ideas so far. What were you going to say next?"

In a dejected tone of voice, he continued, "Photocopier, word processor, and a home I can be sure will still be there if I go away for a few days."

"OK, but I don't quite understand about your home. Don't you have the house by the church?"

"Yes, but it's owned now by the local house builder. Fr Mac has an arrangement with him for me to live there rent-free, but I had to share it with him when he was in financial trouble and when I went on retreat I came back to find he'd rented it to tourists and I had to sleep in the church! Fr Mac's view was ... that it was my problem. When I complained, he had a heart attack! If I could afford it, I'd rent somewhere of my own just for the stability."

"I didn't know about the house."

"And I'd like to make contact with the director of the diocesan youth service if there is one. Oh ...! Sorry, nearly said something rude. Fr Mac is heading this way."

"Don't worry. I asked the archbishop to keep him away from us! See he's got him in the corner now."

Brightening, Peter said, "That's a relief."

"The Youth Director's over there. Shall I introduce you?"

"Yes, please."

"Forgive me for saying so, Peter, but you look as though you could use a holiday."

Peter's face flushed with anger. Almost through his teeth he grated, "What I need is for my parish priest and others to stop obstructing me and let me get on with my job. What I need is to know ..."

"What you don't need is strangers giving you unsolicited advice! Come on, Peter, let's find Jim Doolan." With a hand on Peter's left shoulder, Fr Hugh Johns steered him across the room.

"Jim, can I introduce you to Fr Peter Clifford, assistant at Ballykissangel, you know, the man with the 'sex talk' for teenagers." He said this with a stage wink at Peter.

"Pleased to meet you, Peter. I'm Jim Doolan, Director of Catholic Youth Care. We've all heard of your talk."

"Jim, I was hoping to meet you. But it wasn't a talk on sex, it was on responsible relationships."

"I _know_ that! I heard about it at a youth leader's meeting, and about the grief that Fr MacAnally gave you, _and_ about your doctor's tricking him into turning up too late to interfere! I'd like to see you develop it further. Too few priests have the confidence to take on topics like that."

"It wasn't a question of confidence. It was a desperate need."

"Yes, I agree. Was there anything specific you wanted to speak to me about?"

"I just wanted to find out what resources are available for youth that I could tap into. I'm OK on sport, football mainly, but I have no expertise on other areas and faith development. It's information about parish based initiatives, summer camps and the like that I want. And are there any events in my part of Wicklow? Is there any interest in Ballykissangel being used as a venue?"

Fr Hugh Johns left the two of them talking and consulting their diaries. He thought it remarkable how Peter's mood had lifted as soon as the conversation got back to pastoral matters. He walked over to the archbishop, who still had Fr Mac pinned in a corner.

"Ah, Hugh. Fr MacAnally, have you met our new Episcopal Vicar for Priests, Fr Hugh Johns."

"Yes, your Grace, I have."

"That's an excellent man you have in Peter Clifford. So, enthusiastic, so full of ideas, so focused on pastoral priorities. I hope you are looking after him. We don't want him going back to Salford prematurely," said Hugh.

"Indeed we do not," added the Archbishop.

"I could do with a word with him myself," said Fr Mac.

The archbishop looked over and could see that Peter had finished talking to Jim Doolan and was back with Ambrose and Padraig, so there was no need to keep Fr Mac in his corner for any longer. After Fr Mac had moved away, in a bee-line for Peter, the archbishop said quietly, "Is he as bad as he looks?"

"Worse, if anything."

"Will you keep an eye on him and keep me posted if necessary. And try and keep Frank MacAnally off his back."

"Yes, of course. There is the matter of the church house in Ballykissangel."

"Hmm. I found out about that after the event. Will you see if there is anything we can do?"

- - - 888 - - -

Peter was walking down the hill from St Joseph's towards Hendley's shop when Brian Quigley's Range Rover screeched to a halt next to him. Brian got out and ran round to Peter and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Father, I am so glad to see you back in the village. I've been away for a couple of weeks. The change in my Niamh is astonishing. Almost like her old self. Let me know if there's anything I can do for you."

"Well, actually, I was hoping to see you, Brian." The enthusiastic grin on Brian's face diminished visibly. "Would you be willing to sell the church house back to the archdiocese?"

"Now that would depend on the price and market conditions, and I have plans for the land at the back of the house."

"It's just the house that I'm interested in. Make an offer that I can pass on to the authorities in Dublin."

"I will, I will. But, I'll need to get a valuation."

"No hurry."

Looking slightly puzzled, Brian got back into his car and drove away.

- - -888 - - -

Peter had managed to recruit only one volunteer to be commissioned as a special minister of the Eucharist, Dierdre the baker's daughter. But he hoped that her example might encourage others. Acquisition of a minibus was going to cost far more than he had hoped. Padraig, with whom he had talked over the options, reckoned that one with a lift would cost about twenty thousand pounds with about a further two thousand pounds for a year's insurance and running costs.

The music group would cost much less to get off the ground, about three thousand pounds for instruments and tuition. Brendan had reckoned that there could be as many as twenty who would be interested if tuition were to be used as an incentive. But he would have to raise the funds up front. He considered staging an appeal for increased weekly contributions, but doubted that he could be at all convincing because, in his view at least, the church did so little for the majority in and around Ballykissangel. If he could just raise the attendance at Mass, collections would increase automatically.

His overture to Brian Quigley had also been rebuffed. Brian had come back to him with the news that Fr Mac would not in any circumstances consider a repurchase.

One morning, when he returned to 'his' house after Mass for a quick breakfast, he found a card from the Post Office; they had a parcel for him. It turned out to be the promised bundle of documentation from Fr Hugh Johns, the diocescan clergy handbook, directory, and the pastoral and ad clerum letters for the previous twelve months. After his sick calls and visits with holy communion to housebound parishioners, he sat down to read through the pile. He started with the pastoral letters from the archbishop. As he leafed through the six letters he was very impressed with them and wished that he had been able to read them to his congregation. They addressed topical issues and seemed accessible and wise. The ad clerum letters by contrast were full of administrative information and guidance and seemed full of cross references to the clergy handbook. Leafing through, he found an entry listing the ordination of Timothy Wheen and his initial appointment, to the Pro Cathedral in Dublin and to Dublin City University for a diploma course in counselling. He also found references to there being no increase in the standard stipend for parish clergy and a reminder that appraisal reports for all diocesesan clergy were due by 30 September, both with references to the clergy handbook. Peter had to postpone reading the latter until after confessions.

But when he returned after confessions, he found an envelope pinned to the door; inside was an invitation to supper with Siobhan and Brendan at her house with the option to stay over if he wished. Since his return, he had received frequent invitations like this from a wide range of people in the village. He did realise what was going on, and suspected that Michael Ryan was coordinating it though he did not want to embarrass him by asking directly. He was grateful for the opportunities to get out of the house, especially as he was still reluctant to go into Fitzgerald's. And it did give him opportunities to chat with more of the children in the parish.

He took the clergy handbook and a couple of the pastoral letters with him as conversation pieces. After supper, the three of them pored over the handbook. Brendan, too, was impressed by the pastorals and agreed with Peter that it was a pity that they had not been available when originally meant to be read out. Siobhan and Brendan noticed the conditions of service of the clergy, stipend eight hundred pounds and four week's annual leave. But what really caught Peter's attention was the Poor Parishes Fund.

"Hey, look at this! Perhaps this is how I can get the cash to buy a minibus and set up a music group."

Brendan read through the fine print of the eligibility conditions and agreed with Peter. But he found a couple of snags.

"You will have to move fast, Peter. The deadline for applications is only a couple of days away, and you will have to provide a copy of last year's accounts to prove that parish income is below the threshold. Oh, and you need the parish priest's signature."

"Fr Mac is away until next week, darn it!"

"Well, why don't you submit the form unsigned and keep a copy for Fr Mac to sign when he returns? You could check with the diocesan treasurer whether this would be acceptable."

Peter did just that, and posted off the application form without his parish priest's signature. He managed to see Fr Mac on the day of his return and asked for his signature on the photocopy. That's where things went wrong. Fr Mac exploded with anger, and accused Peter of insolence and meddling in affairs he did not understand and bringing embarrassment on him. He ordered Peter to withdraw the application there and then. He dialled the office of the diocesan treasurer and passed the handset to Peter.

"Diocesan treasurer's office."

"Could I speak to Fr Donovan, please?"

"Who's calling?"

"This is Fr Peter Clifford, Ballykissangel, Cilldargan parish. It's about my application to the Poor Parish Fund."

"Ah, yes. Putting you through."

"Fr Clifford. What can I do for you?"

"Good afternoon, Father. I submitted an application to the Poor Parish Fund without my parish priest's signature. You said that I could do this and obtain his signature on his return. Well, Fr MacAnally wants me to withdraw the application. He thinks my proposals are not appropriate."

"Oh. You surprise me." (Peter was unsure how to take that comment.) "Actually, we found the application very interesting. Are you free to speak?"

"I'm calling from Fr MacAnally's office."

"Fine. I understand. Consider the application withdrawn."

"Thank you. Goodbye, Father."

"God bless."

To Fr Mac, he said, "I am to consider it withdrawn."

With a sneer in his voice, Fr Mac responded, "Good. Now get OUT!"

Peter drove back to Ballykissangel, feeling very dejected. He didn't go to the house, he went into the church to pray. "Was it a mistake to come back?" he asked.

- - - 888 - - -

Michael Ryan found Peter still in the church later on in the evening. It was almost dark and he could barely make Peter out by the dim light of the remaining votive candles. He had tried the house first.

"Peter. Sorry to disturb you. Niamh and Ambrose were expecting you for supper this evening."

"Oh Lord, I forgot." As Peter looked up at him, Michael could see in the poor light that he was in distress.

"What's happened?"

"Fr Mac has humiliated me again. He insisted I withdraw the application to the Poor Parish Fund. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take."

"I'm sorry. Shall I tell Niamh that you will come over? She has left the meal in the oven with Ambrose."

"Yes, please. I'd better lock up and wash myself first.

- - - 888 - - -

"Hello, Fr Hugh Johns."

"Good evening Father, this is Dr Michael Ryan in Ballykissangel. You asked me to keep ..."

"Yes, Michael. How are you? How's Peter Clifford?"

"I'm well enough, but I've just heard that Fr Clifford had another run in with Fr MacAnally today. I've just seen him and he seems very downcast about it."

"Do you know what it was about?"

"As I understand it, Fr Clifford had applied for a grant to the Poor Parish Fund. Fr MacAnally insisted that he phone the diocesan treasurer in his presence to withdraw the application. He feels humiliated all over again."

"Thanks for the tip. I'll look into it. Is he likely to do anything precipitate do you think?"

"I shouldn't think so. When I left him he was just going over to the Garda house for supper. We've been trying to make sure that he has plenty of invitations for evenings."

"That's good to hear. Be well. Michael."

"Good evening, Father."

- - - 888 - - -

As Peter unlocked the front door of his house after saying morning Mass, he could hear the phone ringing.

"Peter Clifford."

"Good morning, Father. This is Fr Alex Donovan, diocesan treasurer. We spoke earlier in the week."

"Yes. Good morning Father. Can I help you?"

"As I said to you, we found your application very interesting. Actually, the Poor Parish Fund doesn't have anything like the resources needed to provide the sums that you were asking for, but I'd like to try and find another way to help you because what you had in mind seemed right on the nail."

"Thank you, Father."

"I need some more financial background. You've been in Ballykissangel for three years?"

"Almost."

"Well, could I see the accounts for the last four years? And could I take a look at your personal accounts?"

"Ye...es, if you need to. I only have a passbook account at the Post Office and a notebook."

"That will do. Could I call on you on Friday morning?"

Peter reached for his diary. "I have Mass at 8:00 and then some house calls. I should be back here by 11:30."

"That would suit me well. I'll see you at the house at about midday. I won't take long. Then, perhaps, we can get a bite to eat. Oh, by the way, do you have any plans to be in Cilldargan later in the day?"

"No." Peter couldn't see the relevance of the question. "Friday afternoons, I usually go up to the school for the afternoon sports."

"Good. See you on Friday at 12:00. God Bless."

"Bye, Father."

Next, Fr Alex Donovan called Fr MacAnally to say that he would call on him on Friday at 14:30. "I need some advice and your experience of running a large rural parish. Could you have your accounts handy?"

Waiting for Fr Donovan to arrive, Peter felt nervous and paced around. He could think of no reason to be worried, but then he was not accustomed to visits from senior diocesan officials. He did wonder if Fr Mac was behind the visit in some way. Hearing a knock on the door, he rushed to open the door.

"Fr Donovan?" Peter saw a tall austere looking man with thinning grey hair and blue eyes, a little older than Fr Mac probably in his late sixties, and wearing a full Roman clerical collar.

"Yes, I'm pleased to meet you, Fr Clifford."

"Please come in, Father. Can I get you anything? A cup of tea? Please have a seat."

"I'll stand for a while if you don't mind - I've been in the car for a couple of hours. But a cup of tea would be most welcome." Fr Donovan looked around as he followed Peter into the kitchen. "Cosy."

"It's comfortable for one."

"But tight for two?"

"You can say that again." Peter wondered how he knew about the share with Brian Quigley as he carried the tray into the living room.

Fr Donovan put his cup down. "Peter that was very nice. Thank you. You don't mind if I call you 'Peter'?"

"Not at all, Father."

"Good. Well, can I see the accounts?"

Reaching over to the armchair where he had put the accounts book, he said, "Here they are. The last two full years are mine. The loose sheet is my summary of the current year to date."

Fr Donovan spent a few minutes poring over the figures, making a few notes in his pad and working back through earlier years. "Much as I thought. Would you mind showing me your personal accounts? I can't insist on it, but it would be in your interest."

As he reached into his pocket for his Pass Book and note book, Peter said, "I have no problem with it. Here they are."

It did not take Fr Donovan more than a couple of minutes to conclude his review. He closed the account books and pushed them across the table to Peter. "Thank you. A good set of accounts." Noticing Peter's tense posture and furrowed facial expression, he said, "Look, Peter, you have nothing to worry about, absolutely nothing, nothing at all. Relax! Your book keeping is excellent. But I'm not here to audit your accounts. I'm here to help you. The accounts that you submitted with the application to the Poor Parishes Fund were something of a revelation. Routinely, the archdiocese only sees the consolidated accounts for parishes as a whole. We rely on the area bishop, Bishop Costello in this case, to approve the accounts of individual churches in extended parishes such as Cilldargan."

"I don't understand what you mean by helping me? I thought the application was withdrawn."

"I can't say much because my investigation isn't complete, but I can say that it was never the intention of the archdiocese that St Joseph's should be financially independent. For one thing, you should be receiving a minimum annual stipend of eight hundred pounds exclusive of personal offerings and Mass stipends. From what I have seen, I reckon you have had about two hundred pounds, and that in effect you are living on your savings and presents from your family."

"That's about it. But I manage."

"That's not the point. The parish should be able to finance the eminently sensible proposals that you included in your application. But I'll have to get back to you on the details. I'm getting hungry. Can we get a sandwich at the pub?"

"Yes, we can."

"But I'd like to have a quick look around on the way down."

They walked round the back of the house and Fr Donovan was surprised to see how much land there was. He could see what had attracted Brian Quigley's interest. In the church he looked up and found the roof repair. "That's where the electric confessional flew in and out?"

Peter laughed, "Yes."

As they walked around the side aisles, Fr Donovan looked up at the Child of Prague statue.

"Not sweating, today, I see."

"You seem remarkably well informed, Father."

"You'd be surprised how much I know about you - and nothing at all to your discredit. I have cousins living in the area! You have more supporters than you know of. A lovely church, such a prayerful ambience." He walked to the centre aisle and knelt at the sanctuary step to pray. Peter walked the other way to the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes and knelt in his favourite spot to pray. Finishing his prayers, Fr Donovan walked quietly over to Peter, and placing an avuncular hand on his left shoulder, said, "Come on, my son, lunch beckons."

As they walked down to Fitzgerald's, Fr Donovan was impressed by the number and variety of greetings they attracted as people and vehicles passed by: 'Afternoon, Father', 'Afternoon, Peter', 'Hiya', 'Peter', 'Peter, Father', not to mention toots on horns and cheery nods and waves. It took them almost fifteen minutes to cover the three hundred yards with all the pauses for brief chats with friends and parishioners. Taking a deep breath, Peter opened the 'accommodation' door, stepped inside and held the door for Fr Donovan. A rowdy cheer went up as the 'usual suspects' saw Peter and encouraged him to join them at the bar. Niamh beamed him a smile.

Peter turned to Fr Donovan, saying, "The natives appear to be friendly."

Brendan stood up to bear-hug Peter and politely to shake Fr Donovan's hand. Peter introduced him. Various hands guided them both to bar stools. Orders were placed. Fr Donovan noticed that Peter seemed very tense and uneasy, and that his eye seemed repeatedly drawn to something behind the bar. Peter left his stool to have a word with Eamon Byrne, who was sitting at the other end by the fire. When he was out of hearing, Brendan suggested to the group that Peter might feel more relaxed if they sat at tables. As they moved their drinks and food over to the side tables, Brendan whispered to Fr Donovan and pointed, "That's where it happened."

"Is this his first time in here since the accident?"

"Not quite, but he won't come in unless there's a good crowd."

- - - 888 - - -

"Ah, Fr MacAnally, thanks for agreeing to see me. It's such a lovely day, couldn't we sit outside in the garden?"

"Welcome, Father. It's good to see you again. Yes, let's go through to the back. Call me Frank, by the way."

Fr Mac guided Fr Donovan down the hall, through the laundry and out of the back door into the garden. Fr Donovan remarked on the pleasant outlook. Standing with his back to the house, he could just see the church to his left. The garden sloped gently upwards away from the house and to his right. Closest to the house were some vegetable beds. Further away he thought he could see some apple trees.

"My cousin tells me that you are a dahlia expert, Frank, but I can't see any."

"Yes, enthusiast rather than expert, I'd say, but they're over beyond the orchard. Shall we walk up?"

At the top of the garden was a pleasant lawn with beds of colourful flowers, including dahlias, heathers and azaleas. There was also a bench seat and a gazebo. Sitting down, Fr Donovan remarked, "This is delightful. Do you have help with the garden?"

"Yes, it is very pleasant. I like to sit out here and read. I can still do the light work myself, but these days I have to rely on help with the heavier stuff. There are two parishioners who help me out in return for a share of the fruit and vegetables, but I don't need much being on my own. In the spring and summer, the church flowers come from this garden."

"The slope makes it seem quite large. There must be half an acre here."

"Nearer three quarters."

"So, well over an acre with the land by the church."

"Yes, about one and a quarter."

"The house looks elegant from this angle, is it Georgian?"

"Not wholly, but it is older than the church."

"It must be something of a maintenance headache, though?"

"Not really, only a few rooms are in use and my housekeeper keeps on top of it. I can usually get Quigley to do any repairs at a good price."

"Quigley. Hmm. Does your housekeeper live in?"

"Oh, no. She has a husband and a family in the town. She's here about five hours a day, less in the school holidays.

The conversation paused as they soaked in the sunshine and the scented breeze.

"Frank, tell me, how long have you been in Cilldargan?"

"Actually I was born in Cilldargan, but coming up for fifteen years as parish priest. I was a curate in Ballykissangel before that. Why do you ask, Father?" Fr Mac had noticed that Fr Donovan had not reciprocated the invitation to use Christian names.

"I was just thinking that you've perhaps got another ten years in you, and twenty-five years is a long time for one appointment. It wouldn't be fair to move a priest close to retirement, so I would have guessed that now would be about the time for a change. But sitting here, Frank, I guess you might miss all this if you had to move. Am I right?"

"I certainly would miss it. And I have no intention of moving. Why should I? The parish is running well and I feel I am doing good work here, with my curates. I run a tight ship." Except for Fr Clifford, he thought to himself.

"I was thinking about some of the north Dublin parishes. There's a lot of deprivation, a great deal of important pastoral work to be done, a real need for priests with your depth of experience. Does that not interest you at all?"

"To be honest, no. I don't think my health would be up to it."

"Hmm. I see." Fr Donovan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Yes, this is a nice spot."

Fr Mac was feeling a little unsettled by the conversation. Why should he even think of moving on from Cilldargan parish? True it was an easy posting, but did he not deserve it in the final years of his active ministry? He spoke up.

"Father, you said on the telephone that you wanted my advice."

"Yes, Frank. It's a delicate matter. I need to find a way to avoid notifying the internal auditors. I'd like to draw on your local knowledge, to ... er ... put right some ... er ... maladministration and irregularities."

Fr Mac felt very smug. "Which parish?"

"Yours, I'm afraid."

"What? You can't be serious! This is ridiculous!" Fr Mac tried to regain his calm. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Father, this cannot be right. The diocese has always approved the Cilldargan accounts and Bishop Costello has approved the accounts for each of my churches for several years, now. He's never indicated there's anything amiss."

"It's Bishop Costello's involvement that makes this such a delicate matter. I know you and he go back many years and that you take your golfing holidays together. But he has taken far too much from you on trust, and now you have placed him in potentially a very embarrassing position."

"I can't believe this. What exactly is supposed to be wrong?"

"Well I had thought there were three financial matters but now I think there may be a fourth. And there are some pastoral issues as well." Fr Mac looked incredulous. "Let me go through them with you. The first concerns the way you are running your church in Ballykissangel as if it were a separate parish; that was clear from the last year's accounts that Fr Clifford submitted with his application to the Poor Parish Fund." Fr Donovan got no further with his explanation.

"I have had it up to here with Fr Clifford. He has been nothing but trouble. This is the end for him. This time I shall insist that he is transferred. He has gone too far this time. He ..."

Fr Donovan stood up, and made as if to walk back to the house. This terminated Fr Mac's tirade.

"If you will not hear me out, you leave me no option but to report my discoveries to the internal auditors. I have no doubt that they will feel obliged to commission an investigation by the external auditors. And in such a case normal procedure for you would be immediate suspension and in the longer run at best a junior parochial appointment. Bishop Costello will not be able to rescue you from that. You will be looking for a new golf partner, too, if you can still afford to play, that is." He paused to let this sink in. "Frank, you must listen to me. Or do I call in the auditors?" To add emphasis to his question, he took out his mobile phone and switched it on.

In a resigned voice, Fr Mac said, "Yes, yes, I'll listen to you. Please sit down. I'm sorry. This is such a surprise." He took out his box of heart pills and put one in his mouth. Alas, Fr Donovan knew well the symptoms, external and internal, of angina and recognised this for what it was, a feint for sympathy.

"As I was saying, those accounts showed that you are running your church in Ballykissangel as if it were a separate parish. And I assume that you have been dealing similarly with your churches in Kilmore and Castlecromarty."

"That was just one year's accounts ..."

"No, Frank. I checked. I saw the last five years' accounts, and they are all much the same. At my request, Fr Clifford was kind enough to let me inspect his personal accounts as well, so there's no possibility of fraud there. The picture is quite clear."

"But, Father, this arrangement has been in place for as long as I can remember."

"That was when the priests concerned had private incomes from their families."

"Fr Collins still does."

"Fr Clifford and Fr O'Malley do not. In any case, there should be an annual written waiver if an assistant priest declines the stipend, submitted with the annual accounts. That much is clear in the Diocesan Handbook. And all this is not Fr Clifford's fault! Actually, he has inadvertently done you a favour. All this would have come to light next year anyway. The internal auditors choose a few churches each year for a detailed review. They call it 'drilling down'. I happen to know that Ballykissangel is on their list. Had they found what I have found, you would be out on your ear faster than you could say 'Pope John Paul'. But seeing as I have found out now, if we can agree some corrective actions on your part, I can report that you found and resolved the problems yourself. With luck, they'll leave matters there."

"So, what's to be done?"

"You should be aggregating the income from all four of your churches and dividing it appropriately. At a rough guess, I'd say half for Cilldargan and a sixth each for Ballykissangel, Castlecromarty and Kilmore. And pay each priest the standard stipend, unless they waive it. You'd better get waivers signed for the previous six years. That's as far back as the Revenue usually go - it's not just diocesan regulations that are involved here! If the stipends are not waived, you had better pay arrears for six years or to the date of appointment."

"That will bankrupt the parish!"

"Frank, I am losing patience. According to your last year's accounts, you have a six-figure bank balance!"

Grudgingly, he agreed, "Very well."

"That was just the first item." Fr Mac groaned. "There's the matter of the sale of the church's house in Ballykissangel."

"That was over three years ago. I had to sell the house to pay for the urgently needed repairs to the roof of St Joseph's. The fabric was in danger!"

"But the cost came in far below the original survey and estimate."

"Yes, fortunately."

"And you added the sale proceeds to Cilldargan funds. Tell me, who carried out the survey and estimate, and carried out the building work? Quigley, who also bought the house?"

Brazenly, Fr Mac replied, "Yes. He's a trusted parishioner and local councillor."

"Frank, ten seconds' scrutiny would show up that deal for what it was. Fraud! You'd better make the sale proceeds over to the diocese. And buy the house back from Quigley at as near the sale price as you can. Let him keep some of the land if you must. And you must complete the buy-back in the current financial year, which leaves you very little time."

Resigned, he said, "Very well."

"The third matter is the large sums you have been carrying from year to year in the Cilldargan accounts for pending repairs to your church roof."

Fr Mac protested, though with now diminished confidence, "But I _am_ very worried about it. I have had it surveyed. It could fall in at any time."

Shaking his head, Fr Donovan said, "Frank, there is nothing wrong with your roof. I went in and had a look before knocking on your door. Tell me, who did the survey for you, Quigley?" Fr Mac nodded in embarrassment.

"I thought as much. This was just a ploy to avoid handing funds to the diocese, wasn't it! Well, you can't just drop this item from the accounts. You must commission a survey by the appropriate authority, the diocesan surveyor. Most roofs need something doing, so you should be able to retain some level of contingency."

"Then there's this place."

"What?"

"You have told me this afternoon, Frank, that you are the single occupant of a house and estate that would do justice to a medium-sized hotel! You are sitting on a diocesan asset worth well over a million pounds! This is not acceptable. You have a residence twice as large as the local bishop and his staff!"

Sounding as if the end of the world had arrived, and mentally kicking himself for his unguarded disclosures earlier, he asked, "So what's to be done?"

"Well, I'll have to commission an independent valuation of the whole site. Maybe we'll have to sell, and build a more appropriate presbytery. Or perhaps it could be used as a home for retired clergy; we do need one in this part of the world. Or a diocesan agency might like to have an outpost here. We'll see. If you are lucky, you might keep a share of the space."

"As you wish. You mentioned that there are some pastoral matters of concern."

Fr Donovan rose and commenced walking back to the house, Fr Mac walking anxiously alongside. "When did you last have a visit from the bishop or the archbishop?"

"Several years ago. Our children go to Wicklow for Confirmation. I don't want one of them poking ..." Fr Mac realised he had put his foot in it again.

"Well, Frank, if I were you I'd hide my contempt for the episcopate a little better. Better still, fulfil your ordination promise and respect and obey them! That would include reading out the archbishop's pastoral letters."

"I put them on the notice board, Father!"

"Frank, if your dismissive comments about them from the pulpit have reached my ears, others will be aware of them also. And make sure that they are read in all your churches. And before you have a visit from the bishop, for heaven's sake replace the Holy Oils. Yours are rancid! I could smell them from the sanctuary - the Olea Sacra was unlocked. I guess it is several years since you attended a Chrism Mass to obtain new ampullae of oils for your churches."

Fr Mac actually blushed at this. He had never felt so humiliated since Kathleen Hendley had denounced his affair with Aileen Maguire to his parish priest twenty years or more ago.

Entering the house, Fr Donovan said, "If you'd be so good, I'll take some cheques with me. Can we go into your study?"

"Very well. Please follow me. Have a seat, Father."

"Well, Frank, the first cheque is to the diocese, the sale price of the house in Ballykissangel. Show it in your accounts as remitted to the Diocesan Treasurer. When you have negotiated a price for the repurchase with Quigley, contact me and we can discuss how the purchase is to be split." Fr Mac growled inwardly as he wrote the cheque.

"Now, one for Fr Clifford."

"Excuse me?"

"His stipend. He's been in post just about three years. So, three years at eight hundred pounds, that's two thousand four hundred pounds. Payable to him personally." Fr Mac wrote angrily.

As he received the two cheques across the table, his eyes twinkled. "Thank you, Frank. Now the third is for the St Joseph's account. Let's have a look at the account book. Hmmm. I reckon the Cilldargan income averages about fifty thousand a year. The other churches would add, call it, say, ten thousand. So, a sixth would be ten thousand. St Joseph's income would be tiny compared with that, so, over three years, that makes thirty thousand pounds? Yes, that'll do."

He looked up at Fr Mac, whose mouth was hanging open. "Frank, the cheque, please?" Resigned to his fate, Fr Mac wrote the cheque and pushed it across. "Thank, you."

Fr Donovan busied himself putting papers and the new cheques into his briefcase. He begged an envelope from Fr Mac and put two of the cheques in it. "Now, Frank, I am expecting you to sort out arrears payments to the other two churches and the priests and any waivers by next week at the latest. And I need a letter from you by the same time listing these and the future arrangements you are putting into place. Monthly payments are the norm. Deliver the letter by hand yourself if you have to but I must have it by then, to give me time to report suitably to the auditors. And get that house back, pronto!"

"Yes, Father."

"Well, good evening, Frank."

"Goodbye, Father."

As he heard Fr Donovan drive away, Fr Mac stood by his desk leaning on his hands, head bowed. "Damn, damn, damn!" He walked to his armchair and sat down heavily. Muttering to himself, he looked at the ceiling in anger and despair. He was still there as the evening grew dark.

- - - 888 - - -

Fr Donovan looked at the clock on the instrument panel. It showed 6 p.m. He pulled into the side of the road, switched on his mobile phone and dialled. "Fr Clifford? Good evening, it's Fr Donovan again. I have some good news for you. Are you free to meet? I could be there in twenty-five minutes. That's fine. I'll see you in the pub. Bye." With a satisfied smile, he re-started the engine and drove off, taking the turn for Ballykissangel."

When Fr Donovan entered Fitzgerald's, he saw Peter sitting in an armchair by the fire, talking earnestly with a shorter balding man. Peter stood up as he approached. "Hello again, Father. Father, may I introduce Dr Michael Ryan. Michael this is Fr Donovan, our Diocesan Treasurer."

"Pleased to meet you again, Father." Peter had not realised that Michael already knew Fr Donovan.

As he sat down, Fr Donovan said, "Peter I have something for you that should make your day." He opened his briefcase and took out a white envelope and handed it to Peter. Peter took it and looked at it, turned it round and looked at it again. Then he looked up at Fr Donovan, who could barely restrain a laugh. "Go on, man. Open it!"

Michael Ryan interrupted with, "Father could I fetch you a drink?"

"That's very kind. A coffee please."

As the cheques fell out of the envelope onto the table, Peter gasped. When he picked them up and read the details, he looked incredulous.

"Peter, Fr MacAnally has decided to integrate the financial administration of the parish. It's the way that most multi-church parishes are run. From now on each church will receive a share of the joint income. The larger cheque is three years' arrears for your church account. Castlecromarty and Kilmore will be receiving something similar. You don't qualify as a Poor Parish any longer! He will pay a central stipend to you also. The smaller cheque is three years' arrears to you. I would add that it's a matter of your choice whether the car you use belongs to you or to the parish."

"Father, I don't know what to say. This is ... too good to be ... What possessed Fr Mac ... This is too much ..." Peter sat there bewildered, looking from the cheques to Fr Donovan and back again.

"Use the funds well, Peter. There is enough there to cover what you put in your application to the Poor Parish fund, and more besides." Tapping his briefcase, he added, "I have an even larger cheque here for the diocese! Oh, and one more thing - I think you will find that Fr MacAnally is quite set on buying back your house."

"Good Lord! How did you do it?"

Smiling, Fr Donovan said, "Believe me, you don't want to know. But it might be wise to steer clear of Fr MacAnally for a day or two."

"I don't know how to thank you."

"No need. No need at all." Fr Donovan drank his coffee and made his goodbyes, apologising that he had to be back in Dublin that night.

Peter stayed sat in his armchair, stunned and with a silly grin on his face. Michael walked back over, leaned forward to read the cheques, and proclaimed, "Well done, Peter!"

From the other end of the bar, Brendan looked up and observed to Niamh, "I think this is the first time in a long while that I have seen a happy look on Fr Peter's face." Niamh agreed.

22


	3. Chapter 3

**Demons Among Friends**

by Kevyn Pieters

**Chapter 3: Crisis**

The next few days were busy as Peter and Padraig O'Kelly considered the detailed arrangements for acquiring a minibus: which vehicle would suit the parish best, whether to lease or purchase outright, whether to go for a new or a used one, insurance arrangements, licensing arrangements, training for drivers and helpers, and whether and how they would allow and charge for use by others, such as the school, or youth groups. Ambrose was helpful in advising on the statutory requirements and obtaining guidance notes for voluntary groups in the use of vehicles. As a necessary courtesy, Peter consulted Fr Mac on their final decisions and arrangements. He was surprisingly neutral.

A week or so after Fr Donovan's visit, Peter was able to announce the minibus project at the end of Sunday Mass.

"Before I give the blessing, there is an announcement I need to make. It's good news, one I have been hoping to make for some time. In a couple of weeks or so, we shall be taking delivery of a 14-seater minibus complete with a wheelchair hoist. We will be using this to bring people to Sunday morning Mass who otherwise can't get here. I have a rough idea of who would like to be picked up, but now I need definite information. I'll be asking when I make house calls next week and the week after. But if there is someone who you think might need to be included, please let me know the details. We have to work out how many trips we need to make and routes and times.

"Also, it has been suggested that the journey back should be delayed to allow for time in the village, lunch for example. If you have a view on that, then let me know. There is a notice in the porch for you to complete. If you remember someone after you have left, phone me or leave a message. Padraig O'Kelly has kindly agreed to drive the minibus initially, but we will need to build up a list of drivers and helpers and get them trained and licensed. The parish will bear the cost of this. If you are interested in helping, please put your name and address on the list in the porch, and I'll contact you. This should make a real difference to our community and I'm very excited about it. In the fullness of time, we should be able to use the minibus for other purposes, too.

"Actually, I have a second announcement as well! There is going to be a youth music group to help with the liturgy on some Sundays (not all). The idea is that those who volunteer can borrow an instrument from the church and the parish will organise (and pay for) some tuition. I'm talking about guitars, flutes, clarinets, strings, and so on. We won't be starting this in earnest until the school term restarts in the autumn, but I'd like to know who's interested. We'll need players and singers, organisers and tutors. There will probably be weekly practice and tuition sessions. The Masses will probably be monthly in the early stages. I would like the group to be ready for Christmas. So, please let me know if you'd be interested and what instrument, etc. If you already have an instrument, then that's fine. There's still the tuition on offer. I shall be sending for my guitar from England! I'm excited about this project, too.

"Neither of these initiatives would be possible without serious financial backing. For that we must thank our parish priest, Fr MacAnally, who has been very helpful with money and wise advice."

Peter looked at Kathleen as he said the last part. He hoped that this acknowledgement, something of an exaggeration, would get back to Fr Mac and that the gesture might ease the friction between them.

- - - 888 - - -

At last having the financial resources to move his pastoral work forward and to meet some of the many needs that he saw all around the parish had lifted Peter's spirits enormously. And not having to choose between eating and putting fuel in his car had helped. Paradoxically, he felt the priestly obligation to live simply all the more keenly now; previously he had not had the choice. But at least now he could afford to pay his way and return drinks on his infrequent visits to Fitzgeralds, and to take a bottle of wine, flowers or other gifts when he was invited to meals or parties. He was even thinking of holding a supper party at his house, which the parish now owned once more, courtesy of Fr MacAnally. Brian Quigley had discreetly thanked him for pressing Fr Mac into the purchase and leaving him with a parcel of land. He seemed to think that this was all Peter's behind-the-scenes way of helping him rebuild his fortunes after the 'Wah Dong' disaster, so firmly did he see Peter on the side of the angels. Fr Mac obviously had not disillusioned him. A new telephone answering machine and mobile phone had made it easier for people to contact him or to leave messages. But they also made it more difficult for him to keep Fr Mac out of his hair.

Even Fr Mac could not deny the response of the parish to Peter's initiatives. The awareness of the church doing more for parishioners seemed to have fed into a generally greater engagement with church activities. The most obvious sign was the greater attendance at Sunday and weekday Masses, and not just by the dozen or so people brought in by minibus. A very measurable sign was the significantly greater generosity people showed in their financial contributions. This alone gave Fr Mac pause because it was distinctly counter to the trend in his other churches in the Cilldargan parish. As Peter became better known informally through his visits to peoples homes, individuals became less inhibited about making suggestions or offering supportive feedback. As a result, Peter had introduced a requests-for-visits box, a suggestions box, a Mass intentions box, an Intercessions Book in which anyone could write a matter of concern or a request for prayers and a weekly Mass for these intentions, an open confessions session when he would sit on the sanctuary instead of in the box at the back of church, and more besides. None of these was particularly novel; Peter had been familiar with them in his former parish in Manchester. But, in a village that would be shocked by 'round teabags' as Siobhan Mehigan had once put it, Peter found such initiatives from the laity a pleasant surprise and a great encouragement.

Fr Jim Doolan, of Catholic Youth Care, had been as good as his word. Peter had been invited to a few meetings and events to familarise him with the organisation and to meet some of the youth workers. There was a definite promise of a summer event in Ballykissangel next year. He had even repeated his talk on Responsible Relationships at a CYC event. Actually, it had not been quite the same talk; with some help from a CYC youth worker and some CYC literature and 35mm slides, he had been able to revise and expand it, adding a little humour and placing a little more emphasis on commitment. It had been well received.

One surprise had been the generally thoughtful questions and discussion that had followed. A question that had completely thrown him, however, came from one of the CYC staff: she had asked whether he was speaking from experience and whether he had followed his own advice.

The momentary agony he felt as a torrent of thoughts and memories flooded his head must have shown on his face because the room went suddenly silent. "Yes, and yes," was the answer he gave in an unsteady voice. Fr Jim came to his rescue with a joke and the discussion session continued. After the meeting, Peter saw Fr Jim take the CYC staffer aside for a stern talking to. She came to him later with a graceless apology. But he accepted it and thanked her for her concern, adding, "I hope you're not as brutal with everyone's feelings." Fr Jim had apologised, too. Peter made light of it: "It was a fair question, really. Just that I hadn't expected it."

But the workload was something else. His diary was full with his expanded duties in Ballykissangel and the CYC events that he was now attending. Preparation for the various sermons and talks, organising the rotas for visiting and the minibus, and planning for the youth music group took a lot of his time as well. Fr Mac could not realistically criticise Peter's work, knowing as he did that Peter had strong support in the parish and the encouragement of the diocesan curia. However, he could make life difficult. And he did. It was obvious to Peter what Fr Mac was doing, loading him up with duties in Cilldargan or at the other churches. What Peter found particularly disruptive were the myriad last minute additions and alterations. But he was determined to cope. He was almost able, but not quite, to resist being provoked by Fr Mac's dismissive comments and making light of Peter's efforts. These always left him seething.

Eventually, the inevitable happened. Fr Mac had left a message for Peter to make an urgent deathbed house call as he was out to dinner and 'couldn't' take it himself. When Peter picked up the message, he was at a CYC meeting with the bishop in Wicklow. The bishop was distinctly unimpressed with Fr Mac's having set his dinner at a higher priority than a sick call. But that did not help Peter. He cut short his time at the meeting, but on the way back his car broke down, and in a mobile-phone dead spot, too.

It was midnight by the time he got back to Ballykissangel to find an angry message from Fr Mac saying that the family had been put to the trouble of making a second call and that he had left his dinner to attend himself. He expected to see Peter the following morning immediately after Mass to explain his gross dereliction of duty. That meeting did not go well. For the first time in a long while, Peter completely lost his temper and accused Fr Mac of setting him up by placing unreasonable demands on him. Fr Mac, of course, was all sweetness and calm, apart from cruelly suggesting that just because Peter no longer had his 'bit of skirt' to 'unwind with', he should not take out his frustrations through insolence to his parish priest.

There was a follow-up meeting, this time with all four of the priests of the parish, the first in Peter's experience, at which Fr Mac rehearsed Peter's misplaced (as he saw it) priorities and inexperience, reviewed Peter's neglect (as he saw it) of his principal duty of ministering to the sick, and invited suggestions for lightening Peter's workload so that he could 'focus on essentials'. Peter sat through Fr Mac's dissection of his pastoral efforts, gloomily and without making any comment. His sense of humiliation and despair had reached new depths. He really wondered how much more of this he could or wanted to take.

But help arrived from an unexpected quarter. Fr Collins quietly and reasonably observed that, as befitted a younger man, Peter actually did far more visiting of the sick than any of them. He also asked rhetorically why if Fr Mac had been unable to leave his dinner he had not called him as he was nearer. Before Fr Mac could answer, he suggested that he and Peter put their heads together to see what they could come up with. After all, they knew each other's patches well enough. With his guns thus spiked, Fr Mac could do little but agree. Peter, who had said nothing during the meeting, smiled his thanks to Fr Collins, who gave his arm a friendly squeeze.

Later in the day, back in Ballykissangel, Peter was discussing his purchase of a newer and more reliable car with Padraig O'Kelly. Michael Ryan and Brendan Kearney approached. Michael had taken a phone call from Fr Collins. When the discussion about cars subsided, Michael said that he and Brendan had heard from Fr Collins what had happened. They were appalled and wanted to help. Michael suggested that Peter should delegate some of the administrative burden. Padraig offered to take on the organisation of the minibus, training and certification of new drivers and helpers. Michael offered to take on the organisation of the visiting rotas and, if Peter would commission him as a Eucharistic Minister, he could help Deirdre with Holy Communion also. Brendan knew that Marie Crowley, who had once been the secretary at Quigley Developments and who now worked at the National School, was interested in the youth liturgical music group. He offered to see if she would be interested in taking on the organisation of the music group. Peter took up their offers.

Later, Peter and Brendan took an evening stroll, a regular feature now that Siobhan was expecting to give birth any day and Brendan felt guilty about spending time in Fitzgeralds when she could not. Brendan asked Peter, "Would I be right in guessing that you are having trouble finding time for your prayers?"

"I suppose you would. What made you think of it?"

"Well, Peter. You get ratty!"

"Oh, thanks a lot!" After a friendly silence, he said, "But you're right. There is so much on, and with Fr Mac's chopping and changing, and dumping last-minute jobs on me, I have no structure to the day anymore. My routine is just shot to pieces. It's very draining, but I'm determined not to give in to him."

"And he's determined to break you?"

"It sometimes seems that way."

"Tell you what. Why don't you take some time away? To pray."

"A retreat you mean? I think I'd rather go hill walking."

"Not a retreat as such, at least not an organised one. I was thinking of Mount Melleray Abbey. It's a Cistercian monastery down in Waterford. They take guests. It's a lovely area. And there are hills to walk in if you want. Might be just the thing. It's only a couple of hours' drive from here, nearer three perhaps. A college friend became a monk there, not that he stayed. But I visited there a couple of times and it was remarkably peaceful."

"It would be different. I'll give it some thought."

"I think you'll find that Fr Collins would stand in for you. You've done that for him often enough."

- - - 888 - - -

Scene: Cappoquin, County Waterford

Peter had been at Mount Melleray Abbey for three days. It had not taken him long to decide that Brendan's suggestion was worth trying. He had telephoned the Abbey and, finding that their Guest House had an immediate vacancy, had placed a booking and left his name, 'Peter Clifford'. When Peter had approached Fr Collins about standing in, he had met with a willing response. Stopping only to leave a phone message for Fr Mac, and to put a couple of changes of clothes, his walking jacket and boots and his breviary in his rucksack and some fuel in his car, he had set off. On a whim, he had left his clerical uniform behind: he didn't expect to need it for hill walking.

The Abbey guest master, Brother Columba, had been very welcoming. The accommodation was basic but better than he was used to, and the food was plain but healthy and enjoyable. The quiet prayerfulness of the place had overwhelmed him. He had planned to attend the community Mass at 7:45 before breakfast and Compline at 8:00 p.m. and to spend the time in between walking the hills. But Vespers and Compline on his first day, even sitting in the public part of the church away from the monks, had been such an uplifting experience that he had limited his walks to the Abbey, its farm and immediate surroundings so that he could participate in more of the hours.

Having eaten lunch with some of the other guests, he was sitting under a yew tree on the lawn by the Retreat House reading his Divine Office. This had become something of a chore in recent weeks. But with the change of environment he was recovering the sense of intimacy and wonder. A young monk, dressed in the usual white habit and black scapular, was passing when Peter happened to look up.

"Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon, Brother."

"Have you had lunch?"

"Thank you, yes. My name's Peter, by the way."

"Good. I'm Aiden. Are you finding your time here fruitful?"

"Yes, it's a very pleasant change. So peaceful. "

Seeing Peter's breviary, Aiden asked, "Do you pray the Office at home?"

"Most days, though it's been difficult to find time just recently."

"What do you do for a living? Do you have a family?"

"Actually, I'm a Catholic priest. I don't have ... I have a parish in Wicklow."

"Whoops! Sorry. I should have guessed. I'm a priest, too. Ordained a couple of years ago. "

"Sorry, Father."

"No, 'Brother' is OK. But you don't sound Irish."

"I'm not. I was brought up in Manchester. Salford's my home diocese. I'm on loan, been here three years now."

"Liking it?"

"It's had its ups and downs, but, yes, I love it over here. The people are great - well, most of them!"

"There was a flicker of sadness on your face when I mentioned family?"

"It's complicated."

"What sort of parish is it?"

"It's one of four churches in the Cilldargan parish, sort of south-west of Wicklow town. Very rural. A good mix of ages, lots of agriculture, not much industry though. Quite a few commute north to work. A beautiful place."

"Sounds like the sort of parish I'd like to work in."

The Abbey bell began tolling. As Peter had been reading the Office, Aiden asked, "Are you coming to None?"

"Yes, I think I will."

They continued talking as they walked together towards the Abbey main buildings.

"What's your role in the community here, Brother?"

"Before I was ordained, I did the baking and helped looked after the kitchen garden, and in the tourist season helped man the gift shop. But since my ordination, I have some liturgical tasks as well and I say Mass at a couple of the local churches at weekends, to help the elderly parish priests. I'd like to see more of that work. I don't do the shop now. Where did you do your theological studies?"

"London. You?"

"Here and Maynooth. This is where you go in. I enter through the cloister with the others. I must hurry. We'll talk again. I'll mention you to the Abbot."

- - - 888 - - -

Peter remained in the church after the monks had left the choir, his thoughts floating on the ethereal sounds of the monks chanting, the birdsong, the smell of the grass and wild flowers, and the shafts of coloured sunlight through the stained glass. His reverie was terminated by a voice, Brother Aiden's.

"Peter. I'm sorry to interrupt your prayers. May I introduce Abbot Thomas? Father, this is Fr Peter Clifford."

Peter stood. "Father Abbot, I'm pleased to meet you." They shook hands. Aiden withdrew discretely.

"May we walk outside?" The Abbot led Peter around the corner into the choir, genuflecting to the high altar where the Blessed Sacrament is reserved, and out through the cloister to an adjoining private garden.

"Tell me, Father, is everything to your satisfaction?"

"Yes, Father, very comfortable, very peaceful, just, I think, what I was hoping for."

"Good. What were you hoping for?"

"Difficult to put into words, Father: peace and quiet, an opportunity to pray, escape from a heavy and chaotic workload, new hills to walk."

"Forgive my asking, Father, but are you in some kind of trouble?"

This took Peter aback. "Er … I've had some personal difficulties and I don't get on too well with my parish priest, but I'm in good standing with my bishop if that's what you mean. My difficulties are not of a canonical nature. Why do you ask?"

"Well, Father, it is unusual for a priest to come to us for retreat and not to identify himself as a priest. And, when a priest comes to stay, arrangements for saying Mass are usually something of a priority; you have not asked to say Mass. And you have not worn clerical dress. You are a bit of a mystery, but I don't mean to criticise!" This last comment was made with a gentle smile.

"Father Abbot, I'm sorry if I've worried you. Let me give you my details."

The Abbot interrupted him. "I'll ask Brother Aiden to take those from you and to assist you in any way you wish. I must apologise, but I have to go to Chapter now. Would you like to have supper with me tomorrow after vespers? We can talk some more then. I'd like to learn more about you and to help you if I can."

"Thank you, Father. I'd like that."

Later, as the guests' supper broke up, Brother Aiden was waiting for Peter.

- - - 888 - - -

Supper with Father Abbot had been taxing, Peter thought afterwards, almost an interrogation.

"Peter. May I call you Peter?"

"Of course, Father."

"I'm a little curious as to why you introduce yourself as 'Peter Clifford' rather than 'Father Peter Clifford'? Surely you're not trying to hide that you are a priest, or expressing some disapproval of the title, or rebelling against something? It's not usual, in Ireland anyway."

"I don't like to put up barriers, I suppose. I don't like to demand respect as of right. It's not something I had really thought about. It's just my way. I think I rather like people to be informal with me."

"Tell me about your work."

Peter explained the organization of the parish, the liturgical routine at his own church, his twice weekly visits to the sick and housebound, of whom there were quite a number, his involvement with the village school, his recent initiatives and work with CYC, and his duties in the wider parish.

"That is quite a workload for an assistant priest. Bishop Costello did mention that you were making a lot of changes to the pattern that you inherited. But …"

"The Bishop?"

"I'm sorry. I should have said. I contacted Bishop Costello to verify your identity. We are having to be very careful these days."

Peter shrugged. "That's OK."

"I was going to ask whether you had to take on so much, so quickly. The other day you described your workload as heavy and chaotic. Does it have to be that way?"

"There was such need. I had been in the parish for getting on for three years. I wanted to go up a gear. Expectations were so low."

"Was there nothing that inspired you in those first years?"

"Actually there was. Hearing confessions three times a week. A couple of hours on Saturday was what I was used to in Manchester, and much of that would be waiting around. The majority of people there didn't seem to go to confession any more. Here, quite a lot still go weekly."

"So, what changed?" Abbot Thomas leaned forward a little and looked Peter in the eyes. "You must have had quite a bit of unpressured time in those early years. How did you use it?"

Peter began to speak, then lowered his eyes and kept his silence.

"I can't see why you have to take all this on yourself?"

Peter tried to find the words for a reply.

"Is your high workload meant to drive something out?" In a very gentle and sympathetic voice, the Abbot continued, "Did something happen to change your priorities?"

Peter coloured slightly. He could tell that his tense expression and inability to look the Abbot in the eye were answering for him.

"It's not something that I'm comfortable discussing."

The Abbot nodded gently and gestured with is hands to indicate that he would not press the matter.

"I will say this, Peter. We have to let go our disappointments and failures of the past, and our successes too, so that they can be transfigured for the future. Trust them to God, so that our relationship with Him can follow His lead."

In an anguished voice, Peter replied, "But how can I let go what has become so much part of me? It's who I am."

The Abbot resumed eating, and Peter did the same.

After a few minutes silent eating, the Abbot asked, "You mentioned something about chaos. How does your workload fit around your routine of prayer?"

"It doesn't. That's largely why I'm here. I have no dependable structure to my day or my week any more. Everything is done in a rush. My parish priest doesn't respect my arrangements or even my occasional recreation days. But I'll not be beaten."

"I'm sure you don't need me to tell you that prayer comes from within us. We can't import it from the friendly corner monastery! Isn't your work, your pastoral work, an integral part of your relationship with God, an accessory and complement to your prayer life? Shouldn't it be? Isn't that the example that as priests we seek to give to our communities?"

"Perhaps it should be. Perhaps it did. I don't know." Peter sounded tired and resigned.

"Priesthood is a sacrifice, isn't it, a sacrifice for the Kingdom?" In a more challenging tone, the Abbot went on, "Peter, what is your sacrifice?"

Agitated, he said, "I … I don't know."

The Abbot reached across and took Peter's hand so that Peter looked up at him. "If it's loneliness, if loneliness is your cross, then it should be part of your prayer, too."

Peter gently withdrew his hand and, closing his eyes, hugged himself. This was too much to take in.

Abbot Thomas sat back and watched Peter. He prayed that the Lord would lift this gifted but wounded priest out of his isolation and heal whatever was weighing him down.

The Abbey bell tolled for Compline.

"Peter, will you join us for night prayer? And if you would like to concelebrate Mass with us in the morning, Brother Aiden will have an alb and stole ready for you. Come to the sacristy.

Peter nodded. "Thank you Father."

"And I'm always available for confession after Terce."

Peter nodded.

Looking back on this, Peter fretted about the uncanny insight that the Abbot had shown and the advice he had given him. But he could not accept that he could or should let go of what had happened to him in the last year. In his inner eyes it defined who he had become. Nor could he bear to contemplate the notion that the intense loneliness he felt was an essential and eternal part of his priestly sacrifice. If he could just get on top of his pastoral work, that would bring fulfilment, and peace.

He had intended to stay for ten days, but he left after a week.

- - - 888 - - -

It was September, and Peter noticed the subtle changes in the colour of the landscape as he drove to Cilldargan for his fortnightly diary meeting with Fr Mac. One matter that he was determined to resolve with his parish priest was that of his annual appraisal. He had not had an appraisal before during his assignment in Ireland, and he had learned of them from the _ad clerum_ letters that he now received regularly. The scheme was detailed in the Clergy Handbook, which he also now had. The basic idea was that he and another diocesan priest, acting as an independent appraiser, would review developments in his priestly ministry, evaluate what had gone well and what had not, formulate objectives for the next period and identify any training or other needs. The appraiser would then write a brief report for the parish priest to include in his annual report to his bishop. Peter was very keen to reflect on his recent initiatives in Ballykissangel and their impact and saw the appraisal as a good opportunity for an objective review, something that he thought would be impossible to get from Fr Mac.

The most recent _ad clerum_ had been very clear, the deadline for reports was the end of the month, yet Fr Mac had kept putting him off. Peter had a fall-back plan up his sleeve.

When Peter raised the matter again at the end of their diary meeting, Fr Mac could see that he would have to do something, or Peter would keep on nagging him about it. As far as he was concerned, they were a waste of time, along with the rest of the 'modern personnel management' methods that the diocese was inflicting on hard-pressed parish priests like himself.

"Very well. If you insist on having an appraisal, I'll do it myself."

"No Father. That won't do. The appraiser has to be independent."

"And I'm not?"

Peter hesitated. He knew what he wanted to say, but couldn't find the words to put it courteously.

Seeing Peter's hesitation, Fr Mac could guess what Peter wanted to say. "Well, as I said, if you insist on having an appraisal, then it's with me."

"No, Father. You can't do that."

"No?"

"No. I have to agree to the choice, the Clergy Handbook says so."

"Where did you get that?"

"I asked for a copy. And the bishop's most recent _ad clerum _reminded us that appraisal reports are due at the end of the month."

"But I didn't send you ... " Fr Mac fell silent and glared at Peter.

Carefully, Peter said, "In case we could not agree on someone suitable in the diocese, I asked my former parish priest, Fr Randall at _Holy Name_ in Manchester. Are you agreeable to that?"

Fr Mac's face reddened and he looked as if he might explode. But he kept silent.

Peter had the feeling that unrestricted and all-out war had just been declared.

- - - 888 - - -

Peter closed the door and sank into his armchair. He had just returned from having supper with the Egans. Except for the opportunity to play with Kieran and put him to bed, it had not been a pleasant evening. Niamh had continually sniped at Ambrose, who had just squirmed and radiated unease and embarrassment. It was as if their marriage were falling apart. Not so long before, the warmth of their home had been a haven for him, a big part of what had kept him going. He was upset that he couldn't seem to influence Niamh despite his efforts to get through to her. She had snapped at him more than once. Ambrose had become more and more solitary and buried himself in his work. On one occasion when Peter had managed to get Ambrose to talk, he had almost burst into tears as he admitted that he still loved Niamh as much as ever but that he couldn't see what to do to win her back.

What really depressed Peter was the thought that his relationship with Assumpta might eventually have disintegrated in the way that the Egans' now seemed to be doing. "Is this what would have become of Assumpta and me?" he wondered.

Preoccupation with the Egans' relationship added to Peter's sleeplessness.

- - - 888 - - -

One of Michael Ryan's patients was fading fast. It was 1 a.m. and his wife had called out the doctor. She explained that he hadn't been to church for years. They had had to marry outside the church because he had divorced his first wife, who had left him soon after their wedding. He was very anxious and wanted a priest. But he didn't want Fr MacAnally, whom he blamed for having declined to help seek an annulment for his first marriage.

Michael decided, "I'll call Fr Clifford."

But Peter didn't answer the phone. Nor did he answer his mobile. Normally, if he was away, there would have been a recorded message on one or the other. For no reason that he could put his finger on, this worried him. He redialed.

A sleepy voice answered, "Garda Siochana."

"Ambrose. Michael Ryan. I'm a little worried about Fr Clifford. Do you know where he is?"

"Er … Michael. Sorry, I am half asleep. No, I don't know. Why the concern?"

"I've been trying to get him for an urgent sick call and he is not answering his phones and there's no recorded message."

"That's odd. Not like him. I'll get dressed and go see. Call you back. Are you on your mobile?"

"Yes. Thanks, Ambrose. Sorry to put you to the trouble. But you know how it is. Apologise for me to Niamh."

"Oh, she's still away with the fairies. Yeah, we've got to look after Peter."

Niamh was actually wide awake but hadn't opened her eyes and had lain still. Peter was someone she was increasingly reluctant to speak to or think about these days.

Ambrose found Peter's house lights on and the door ajar, but he was not at home. Walking up the hill a little further, he could see light in the church windows. Entering the church, the door was wide open, the lights were on and Peter was slumped in a pew by the statue of Our Lady and was fast asleep.

Ambrose shook Peter's shoulder to wake him.

"Peter, Peter. Wake up. There's an urgent sick call. Dr Ryan's been trying to get you. What are you doing?"

"Oh Lord, where am … what time is it? Ambrose!"

He stood up unsteadily, rubbing his face and stretching, shivering a little in the cold.

"Oh dear."

"Peter, what's going on? It's gone one o'clock, what are you doing in the church? And your house door is open?"

"I must have fallen asleep again."

"Again?"

"When I got back to the house, I sat down just for a few minutes to watch the evening news on TV, and when I woke up it was nearly midnight. I dashed up to the church to lock up. When I knelt to pray, I must have dropped off again."

Peter was swaying as he walked around the church extinguishing the votive candles, checking on the sanctuary lamp, and switching off the electric lights. As he finally genuflected, he almost fell over.

"Peter, you are in no state to get behind the wheel of a car. I'll drive you. Michael can bring you back."

Peter locked the church and then his house, by which time Ambrose was waiting in the patrol car.

- - - 888 - - -

Michael pulled up outside Peter's house, applied the handbrake and turned off the engine. He turned to Peter. "Father, I need to see you in the surgery tomorrow morning, any time between ten and eleven."

"It's hardly a matter of life and death," replied Peter.

"It is exactly that. Believe me."

- - - 888 - - -

Michael had called into Fitzgeralds in the hope of catching Brendan Kearney. It was Friday, and, as usual Brendan was taking his supper in the pub.

"Michael. Good to see you." Brendan and Michael shook hands. "What will you have to drink?"

"Just an orange juice please, Brendan," he replied with a grimace. "I'm on call tonight."

"An orange juice for the doctor please, Niamh, when you're ready. And I'll have another of my usual."

"How's Siobhan?"

"Uncomfortable. And bad tempered! But she's well enough. Tell me, Michael, where's Fr Clifford? He usually comes to the school sports on a Friday afternoon. But he didn't turn up today. The kids missed him. Probably fell asleep somewhere."

"I believe he went to Manchester to see his old parish priest."

"Well, I hope he didn't fall asleep on the plane and find himself in Stuttgart or somewhere."

Michael smiled. "He's been doing a lot of that."

"Are you worried?"

"Yes. I can't say more I'm afraid."

"Didn't you tell me once that the diocese asked you to let them know if Fr Peter got bad again?"

"Yes, Fr Hugh Johns. I'd be happier if you'd make the call. I'm Peter's doctor, so this overlaps with my obligations to confidentiality. But I think that I am going to have to do something official, hopefully with his consent but if he is becoming a danger to himself and to others I'll have to do it without."

- - - 888 - - -

"Come in, Michael." They shook hands and Fr Mac closed the door. "Let's go into my study."

"Thank you for seeing me, Frank."

"No problem. Would you like a drink?"

"I'm off duty, so a whiskey would be nice?"

Fr Mac poured two whiskeys and handed one to Michael. "Do sit down." He gestured with his glass towards one of the armchairs. He went back to the drinks tray and picked up the jug of water and put it on the table between the chairs. He sat down with a sigh and raised his glass to Michael.

"Your good health."

"Yours, too."

"Now, Michael. What's this all about?"

"Fr Clifford."

"Ah. Go on."

"I'm worried about him."

"Aren't we all?" mumbled Fr Mac into his glass. Then, putting his glass down, he spoke more seriously. "Do you mean in a professional sense?"

"Yes, Frank, I do."

"Go on."

"Well, exhaustion is the most obvious sign, and his irritability. When I examined him, his blood pressure is far too high for someone of his age and fitness, his heart rate is a little up and fluttery, he always seems to have a cold these days, can't shake it off, and he has digestive problems that he used not to have. He has lost some weight, too. Sometimes his speech sounds a little slurred, as if he had been drinking though I know he hadn't. He has sleep problems too. Most of this could be put down to stress through overwork and lack of relaxation. But there's also the hint of clinical depression. My real worry is that he is slipping into something that will be difficult to break from."

"Does he know you are speaking to me?"

"I told him that I needed his consent and he just shrugged his shoulders. I took that as consent. Though, as he is putting himself at risk, I don't think I need it."

"So, what can I do?"

"He needs to ease up. Do you have to load him quite so heavily, disrupt his routine quite so much? But more than that he needs to heal that …"

Fr Mac jumped in sarcastically, "Oho! You mean heal his 'broken heart'?"

Michael just looked at him wearily but said nothing. Gently shaking his head, he reached for his glass and drank.

Fr Mac knew he should not have said that. He pushed himself out of his chair and walked across to the drinks tray and picked up the whiskey bottle. As he refilled Michael's glass he mumbled, "Sorry. I know you're his friend and I'm glad that you are."

As Fr Mac sat back into his chair, Michael said, "I hope I am friends with both of you, but do you have to speak of him so derisively? There are times when …" Michael hesitated.

"Go on. Say it."

"… I think you treat him abominably. But I acknowledge that fault lies on both sides."

Fr Mac looked a little surprised at the forthrightness of Michael's remark. He shrugged his shoulders and nodded as if to admit the truth of it.

As Fr Mac said nothing, Michael continued, "No, it's not just a 'broken heart' as you put it, though it's my guess that he has not grieved properly either for his mother or for Assumpta Fitzgerald. There's something else eating at him. It's not my province but I just wonder if it might be a spiritual rather than psychological matter." Fr Mac looked up at this. "The conversations that I and his other close friends had with him in the immediate aftermath of Assumpta's death were very spiritual: more 'what does this mean?' than 'how can God do this to me?' He seemed spiritually well balanced despite his being distraught and in shock. He was an immense help to us, far more, I'm sure, than he realizes."

"He is a good priest. I told him so."

Michael went on, "I know his overworking is to keep something out. Perhaps it's just loneliness. At heart, he's not one of life's loners. But there might be something else. On one occasion, he broke down completely and wept inconsolably, almost hysterically, for several minutes. I had to hold him to prevent him getting into breathing difficulties. I couldn't make out what he said, it was too incoherent, but he rambled about his father, his ordination, Bradley, his parents' marriage, his brothers, and Assumpta too. Perhaps he feels guilt that his ordination has hurt too many people. As I say, spiritual matters are not my province."

"Well, there's no point in my trying to talk to him. He won't listen to me."

"I don't think that he has had any time with a priest since he lost his mother and his fiancée. That's not right, surely?"

Fr Mac's distaste at Michael's use of 'fiancée' was obvious. "As I said, he won't talk to me."

"Can you at least ease off on his workload, and give him more consistency? I know that his lack of routine is part of his problem. I've found him collapsed asleep in church more than once when he had gone there to pray."

"I didn't know that."

"The people love him. We cover up for him, to stop you or Kathleen from finding out. Can you help? Will you?"

"Yes, I could ease off a little. But he is doing far too much. The range of activities that he is trying to provide is simply not sustainable with the priests we have. And parishioners from other parts of the parish complain to me about not having some of the resources and services that Ballykissangel has. He's making problems for all of us, not just for himself. But he won't listen to me. He won't."

"But you will ease off?"

Fr Mac sighed and nodded.

"Do you think I had better write to the archbishop about the other matters?"

"That might be best. Get him transferred."

"No," said Michael thoughtfully, "transferring him away might be the last straw for him."

- - - 888 - - -

An exchange of letters between the head of the Dublin archdiocese and Peter's own bishop:

_Archdiocese of Dublin  
Archbishop's House  
Drumcondra  
Dublin 9_

_Right Reverend Thomas James  
Bishop of Salford  
Salford M3 5LL  
United Kingdom_

_In confidence_

_Right Reverend and Dear Brother in Christ_

_With reference to Reverend Fr Peter James Clifford, Diocese of Salford, Province of England and Wales, currently working in the Archdiocese of Dublin._

_I thank you for communicating your concerns about Fr Clifford that arose from his recent appraisal with Fr Laurence Randall of your diocese. It was symptomatic of Fr Clifford's difficult relationship with his current parish priest that he both insisted on having an annual appraisal, long after his parish priest should have arranged one, and chose an appraiser beyond the influence of his parish priest. I am grateful for your understanding of this odd situation._

_Coincidentally, I am in receipt of an unsolicited and confidential letter from a parishioner of Fr Clifford, also a close friend and his physician. This letter expresses almost identical concerns to yours as well as concerns about his state of physical health. I must act on these but the case is not straightforward. The usual approach would be to transfer the priest to alternative duties. But clearly this will not serve in the case of Fr Clifford._

_The letter reminds me that, __six months or so ago, when he had been serving in his current parish for less than three years, Fr Clifford suffered a double bereavement within a very short period. The first loss was of his mother, his father having died before his ordination. It is our common experience that the death of parents can be a time of transition in the life and career of a priest. Before he could grieve for his mother he suffered a second and devastating loss, in tragic circumstances, of a close friend, with whom he was chastely in love and for whom he had decided to seek laicisation and whom he hoped to marry. This person, a remarkable lady by all accounts, though not a practising Catholic, gave him the friendship, moral support and theological challenge that should have been afforded by his brother priests. According to the letter, Fr Clifford responded to these losses by throwing himself energetically into his pastoral work with new initiatives for the youth and the elderly and raising the engagement of the community to levels well above the average for rural Ireland. The writer says that Fr Clifford seems driven as much by a wish to defy and outclass his conservative parish priest as by the pastoral needs of his community but most of all by a desperate need to fill every second of the day. In the writer's estimation, Fr Clifford has a deep unhappiness within, has not come to terms with the tragic loss of his friend and is driving himself inexorably towards burnout and a breakdown. He advises caution and suggests that a subtle change of direction over time and access to professional counselling may help._

_When I was in Co. Wicklow with the Apostolic Nuncio recently, I took the opportunity to meet Fr Clifford, and I have to say that my impression was consistent with the letter. The Nuncio and I were very struck by his success as an inspirational pastor. It was clear that he is greatly loved and respected both by his parishioners and the townspeople who are either non-catholic or non-practising, and he reciprocates this affection. The Nuncio thought that Fr Clifford might in due time be a candidate for an episcopal appointment._

_I am minded to make the following arrangements and would welcome your comments, and confirmation that you are willing for Fr Clifford to remain working in Dublin archdiocese on this basis. There are three parts to my plan._

_One of the priests in the archdiocese (Fr Timothy Wheen), with whom Fr Clifford is already on friendly terms, will soon qualify as a counsellor and I will strongly encourage Fr Clifford to see him professionally._

_As to the subtle change of direction that his friend and physician recommends, I shall invite Fr Clifford to go to Rome next autumn to study for a doctorate in Canon Law, with the intention of his being appointed on his return as an advocate with the Diocesan Marriage Tribunal in addition to his parish work. I shall emphasise firstly that I hold him in very high regard, value his pastoral instinct and initiative and want to open up career options for him, and secondly that for the period of his studies in Rome he will be on-leave from Ballykissangel but still assigned there, and may, if he wishes, return there at any time._

_I intend also to place another assistant priest with Fr Clifford in Ballykissangel. The man I have in mind has been a Cistercian Monk for ten years but is keen to work in a rural parish. He is a very spiritual person and has a great rapport with the youth. He has a similar outlook on life to Fr Clifford though a very different background, and I am hopeful that they will get on well. I will tell Fr Clifford that my plan is that Fr Aiden O'Connell OCist will learn pastoral skills from him, so that he can run the Ballykissangel sub-parish in his absence, and subsequently use his pastoral know-how to take Fr Clifford's approach into a new parish. Assigning two priests to Ballykissangel will no doubt incur the wrath of the parish priest, but I can depend on (and shall insist on) his obedience in this matter._

_Please let me have your thoughts._

_I look forward to seeing you in Rome later in the year when we are there for our quinquennial visits ad limina apostolorum. In the meantime, I wish you good health and every grace and blessing. _

_Yours ever in Christ Our Lord_

† _Gervaise O'Connor  
Archbishop of Dublin_

- - - 888 - - -

_Diocese of Salford  
Cathedral House  
Salford M3 5LL_

_Most Reverend Gervaise O'Connor  
Archbishop of Dublin  
Archbishop's House  
Drumcondra  
Dublin 9  
Republic of Ireland_

_In confidence_

_Your Grace,_

_With reference to Reverend Fr Peter James Clifford of this diocese, currently assigned to the Archdiocese of Dublin._

_Thank you for your letter._

_I am happy to confirm that I am willing for Fr Clifford to remain working in your archdiocese sine die. I shall write to him to confirm extension of his assignment._

_The arrangements you describe for his pastoral care and professional development have my full support. I think that your proposal in the longer term to encourage him into specialist marriage tribunal work alongside parish work is inspired. This field of work is consonant with his pastoral priorities, and his intellectual and interpersonal skills should enable him to be of real help to our people in these difficult situations._

_I too look forward to our having an opportunity to meet in Rome and I heartily reciprocate your good wishes._

_Yours in Christ Jesus_

† _Thomas James  
Bishop of Salford_

21


	4. Chapter 4

**Demons Among Friends**

by Kevyn Pieters

**Chapter 4: New directions**

November saw the arrival of Fr Aiden O'Connell. Peter was astonished to see that his new colleague was in fact Brother Aiden whom he had met at Mount Melleray Abbey. Liam Cochlan and Donal Doherty had been hired to convert the back upstairs room into a small bedroom. Siobhan had warned Peter to keep a close eye on them. They made a good job of the conversion, though Peter and Liam argued repeatedly over costs.

Aiden took to the parish like a duck to water, and the parishioners took to him as well. The sharing of the workload and the companionship transformed Peter's life. By Christmas, he was more like his old self. Aiden's sister, Orla, had come to live in the village and she was in and out of the house, which brightened things.

Aiden liked to keep up the monastic hours as best he could, and Peter joined him when he could. Shared personal prayer and concelebrating Masses were new and uplifting experiences for Peter.

Peter expected Christmas to be a lonely time. He and Aiden celebrated the Christmas Masses in Ballykissangel and helped out at the other churches in the Cilldargan parish also. Peter brought the Midnight Mass forward by three hours so that his new Youth Music Group could provide the music. They turned out again for the morning Mass. Even Kathleen had to admit they were good and had liked particularly the traditional _Gaeilge_ carols that were included. For the rest of the week, Peter left Aiden in charge and spent a few days with Fr Timothy Wheen in Dublin and made a flying visit to his brother Andrew and his wife in Manchester. He looked in on Fr Randall as well. He returned in time for Aiden to spend New Year with his parents.

- - - 888 - - -

Following the birth of Aisling to Siobhan and Brendan, Brendan felt pushed out and Siobhan felt that Brendan was not pulling his weight. Things came to a head as the Christening approached. Brendan liked the name that Siobhan had chosen but resented that she had not consulted him. He decided not to participate in the Baptism celebration. Siobhan had asked Aiden to baptise Aisling, thinking that it would be nice for him to not play 'second fiddle' to Peter for a change. But she had not realised that this would be his first ever Baptism and that he had to take lessons from Fr Mac. Peter had a heart-to-heart with Brendan to get him to change his mind. Peter couldn't attend because he had been booked for a Youth event in Wicklow.

The spring also saw the first anniversary of Assumpta's death. Niamh and Brendan spoke about this in Fitzgeralds. Where was she buried? Brendan suggested that Niamh contact Leo McGarvey and she did. But Leo seemed still to be in a resentful frame of mind concerning Assumpta's friends in Ballykissangel and would not tell anything about the funeral. They asked Michael Ryan how they could find out. He undertook to consult the records in the Coroner's Office in Cilldargan. These only showed that her husband had taken the mortal remains to Dublin. With the assistance of Fr Timothy Wheen, it was established eventually that Assumpta had been cremated and her ashes buried in the Garden of Remembrance at Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin. It was unclear what funeral or committal service had been conducted.

Michael was deputed to ask Peter if he would celebrate a Requiem Mass for Assumpta Fitzgerald. They were concerned that he would be upset at the reminder and they thought that Michael could best handle the request tactfully. It was hardly a surprise that Peter had been wondering about just these same questions and was glad to know where her mortal remains rested. He had been planning to celebrate a Requiem Mass anyway and had been considering which prayers and readings to use. At Peter's suggestion, they all got involved in marking her anniversary. As they were uncertain that Leo had given her a Christian funeral, they decided on a Requiem Mass in black vestments at St Joseph's, a drive to Glasnevin Cemetery to say some of the prayers from the Catholic committal ceremony, and then a suitable celebration in a pub before driving home. Brendan, Michael and Peter paid for the coach. As the news spread through the village, the number of people who wanted to join in increased. Finally a 40-seater was booked and was full. Peter had expected to be tearful at their informal little ceremony at Glasnevin but, with one exception, had been buoyed up by the large number of her friends and admirers who had turned out. The exception was when four girls from the Youth Music Group had sung the Lloyd Weber _'Pie Jesu'_, but then, the entire group had tears in their eyes.

--- 888 ---

August came around and it was time for Peter to leave for a short holiday and his studies in Rome. Everyone knew he was going but this is how he announced it, at the end of Mass before the dismissal and blessing:

"My dear sisters and brothers, ... my dear friends.

"This is the last Mass that I shall be celebrating with you for some time, as I leave tomorrow to travel to Rome where I am to study Canon Law for two years - or five years - it depends how good I am. It's four years now since I first came to this village and fell in love with you and this lovely corner of Ireland. I've had my rough patches but on the whole I have enjoyed being among you and sharing your joys and disappointments. This last year or so has seen quite a few changes, the best of which, no doubt, is the coming of our favourite monk, Fr Aiden! Between us we are able to do so much more for you. The more frequent visiting, the greater attendances at Mass, the youth music group, the house Masses and the minibus are examples of that. Leaving is going to be quite a wrench, and, to be honest, I'm not sure how I am going to cope. I can't say that I am really looking forward to being a full-time student again. But the archbishop has asked me to do this so that when I come back I shall be qualified to help people with marriage problems to get the consideration they need from the church marriage tribunals. This is not something that we hear much about, but I can tell you that the work is very important to those affected. Helping people with their relationships has always been a priority for me, and studying for a JCD will allow me to do more for people.

"I shall miss you all enormously, so please write or e-mail me with your news. I'll put my contact details on the notice board. Or you can leave messages with Fr Aiden, who has promised to pass them on. I promise to reply. And I promise to send my news as well. I'll try and send some digital pictures with the camera that you so generously gave me.

"The Archbishop has promised that I can return to Ballykissangel in my holidays and when I have finished the course. So, in the words of the Terminator, "I'll be back!" In the meantime, I leave you in the very capable hands of Fr Aiden. Please pray for me now and then, as I shall pray and offer my Masses for all of you. As the first thing I shall have to do is to learn Italian, let me conclude by saying 'A presto'!"

--- 888 ---

Peter Clifford spent five years studying canon law at the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome gaining first his licentiate and then his doctorate (JCD). He was as good as his word and kept in frequent touch with his friends and parishioners in Ballykissangel. He sent a monthly newsletter to Fr Aiden for the noticeboard, sometimes including paragraphs in Latin or Italian for the school students to wrestle over. He took to signing himself 'Padre Pietro Cliffordini'! And he replied to the many letters and e-mail messages that reached him.

He made short return visits during the year and spent a few weeks each summer covering for the holidays of Fr Aiden or Fr Mac. He would be glad to get back to his studies after the energetic round of home visits and parties. He would call on Fr Timothy Wheen on his way through Dublin, and visit Glasnevin cemetery too.

He made new friends in Rome, especially Fr Angelo Mazzini SJ, who also was working for his JCD. Fr Angelo had extended family all over Italy and took Peter with him whenever he could. Peter came to realise that a JCD is not only an essential qualification for work with the Marriage Tribunals but also a desirable qualification for any high administrative office in the Church. His fellow students were all 'high fliers'.

He became friends with some of the student priests at the Venerable English College. Once they realized that he was a first-class graduate in Astronomy (and from Cambridge as well), he was drawn into various discussion groups on cosmology, creationism and so on. He found himself having to update his knowledge of recent developments in cosmology and particle physics. One particular joy was a visit to the telescope at the Vatican Observatory at Castel Gandolfo and even to observe through it.

The English-language newspapers were part of his regular reading and he loved listening to the BBC World Service on his portable radio as he wrote his letters in the late evening. One sadness, though, was the series of scandals concerning the Church which were then dominating the headlines. He was not altogether sorry to be out of Ireland. But he always went back to see his friends. Ballykissangel was his home, when all was said and done.

When he returned after gaining his JCD, it was as parish priest of Cilldargan in succession to Fr Mac, who had retired on health grounds. His arthritis had become much worse and he had suffered several more heart attacks. After a couple of years, Peter was appointed to the diocesan marriage tribunal alongside his parish work. This meant that he had to spend at least one day a week in Dublin and much time on case papers. So, reluctantly, he had to give up his football matches and his youth work. He also saw less of his friends in Ballykissangel.

After five years there, he was posted back to England as Vicar General in his home diocese of Salford. Within a year, he was appointed an auxiliary bishop in the Archdiocese of Birmingham, UK. His titular see was Valentiniana. As well as acting as the archbishop's deputy for a sector of the very large diocese, he had oversight of the youth service including two residential centres and was a member of the diocesan marriage appeals tribunal. He also lectured at Oscott College, the diocesan seminary. Later he acquired the additional duty of media spokesman on Science and Religion for the Bishops of England and Wales and in that capacity became an occasional broadcaster on the BBC.

But the part of his role that he loved best, worked hardest at and thought most important, was looking after the priests who worked in his area, particularly the less experienced ones. As a curate or parish priest he had been the spiritual father of his community; now he saw himself as the father of his priests.

Sadly, over time, he gradually lost contact with his friends in Ballykissangel and even the annual arrival of Christmas cards from Ireland dried up.

- - - 888 - - -

4


	5. Chapter 5

**Demons Among Friends**

by Kevyn Pieters

**Chapter 5**

20 years later

Peter picked up the telephone. "Peter Clifford."

"Is that Bishop Clifford?"

"Yes, it is. How can I help you?"

"This is Aisling Kenny. I don't know if you would remember me or my father, Brendan Kearney."

"Yes, Aisling, how could I forget him? How is he? And your mother?"

"Mum died a couple of years ago, but it's Dad I need to speak to you about."

"I'm so sorry to hear about your mother. Siobhan was a good friend to me. May she rest in peace. How is Brendan?"

"He's seriously ill, and the doctors have told the family to come because his condition has become critical. He's sinking fast. He's been asking for you ... It's taken me a while to find you. Dad had lost your address. Eventually, a lady in Salford gave me your number. Can you come?"

Peter thought she sounded very upset. "Yes, of course I'll visit him. Where is he?"

"We're at the Bon Secours Hospital in Cork."

"Can you give me some contact details?" He beckoned his assistant to come across to him as he wrote down the numbers. He whispered, "Jaynie, I need to visit the deathbed of an old friend in Cork. Can you work out how I can get there fastest? It's urgent."

"Aisling, I've got all that. How are you bearing up? Do you have any family of your own with you?"

"It's a bit tough. Dad's in a lot of pain. He seems to be shrinking before our eyes. Yeah, I've got two daughters, three and six. Kevin, my husband, is on his way back from Australia; he won't be here until late tomorrow."

Jaynie pushed a piece of paper across the desk to him. "Aisling, I can get a flight into Cork tonight. I should be with you by midnight or a little before if the flights are on time. I'll text you when I've landed. Can you tell the hospital staff to expect me, otherwise, I should think the place will be locked up! If it helps, use my full title, Bishop of Valentiniana!!"

"Wow!"

"That's what I thought when I first heard it. But you tell everyone to call me Peter. Brendan will. Give him my love and tell him to hang on for me. Bye Aisling. God bless."

Having looked at the itinerary that Jaynie had written out for him, he asked, "Do you think I'd better pull out of the meeting with the Director of Education? I need to be sure to get that flight. I fear tomorrow morning will be too late."

"He won't be pleased."

"I know. But Brendan Kearney did more than anyone to sustain me in the priesthood at what was a desperately difficult time for me. If it were not for him, I'd be a retired social worker with children and grand children by now."

"Do you ever miss ..."

Peter interrupted quietly, "Jaynie, please don't go there."

She thought that the answer was written all over his face. "Bless you, Peter," she thought to herself.

- - - 888 - - -

It was after 1 a.m. when Peter was shown into Brendan's room. The flight had been late and there had been a wait for a taxi. They were all asleep and the lights had been dimmed. The nurse stepped quietly over to Aisling, who was asleep in an easy chair, and gently shook her shoulder. "Bishop Clifford's here."

Aisling looked up and saw Peter standing in the doorway. She rubbed her eyes, walked across to him, and said, "My Lord, thank you so much for coming."

Peter hugged her to him and said "Thanks for asking me to come. And, please call me 'Peter'. I feel such a fraud when people call me 'Lord'. It's so mediaeval. If you must be formal, 'Father' will do. These must be your daughters."

"That's Siobhan on the little bed. She's three. That's Assumpta curled up on the easy chair. She's six, and her grandad's pet."

At the mention of that name, his mind went into a whirl, but he thought it was just fantastic that Brendan should have a grandchild named after his late almost-adopted daughter. "How is Brendan?"

"Very weak. He's asleep now. They gave him a sedative a few hours ago, to help him sleep. He's been getting sore, which keeps him awake."

"Has he received the sacrament of the sick recently?"

"Not since he's been in this hospital."

"I'll anoint him, then."

"Shall I wake him?"

"No. That's not necessary."

"Do you need the lights up?"

He took Aisling by the arm. "Aisling, the lights are fine. This has been a dreadful strain on you, hasn't it?" She just nodded but Peter could see her moist eyes glistening. "All shall be well." And he blessed her.

Tiptoeing over to Brendan's bed, he noticed that both the little girls had golden red hair just like their mother and grandmother.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Brendan stirred but did not wake. He took out his pocket stole and ampule of oil and anointed Brendan. Dipping the edge of his right thumb in the oil and making a small cross with it on Brendan's forehead, he said, _"Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit. Amen." _Anointing first Brendan's left and then his right hand, Peter said, _"May the Lord who frees your sins save you and raise you up. Amen."_

"What are you doing?" Little Assumpta was standing next to him looking curiously at the glistening oil on Brendan's head and hands. "What's that?" she said pointing.

Peter cleaned his thumb on a handkerchief and put his stole back in his pocket. "It's holy oil."

"Will it make him better?"

"It might. It depends on what God wants. But it will help him, one way or another."

"Peter, is that you?" Peter saw that Brendan's eyes were open. "Thanks for coming. Good to see you."

"And you, my old friend. How's the fishing around here?"

"Well, I'll not catch anything with you around making all this noise." With that he drifted off to sleep again, this time with a smile on his face.

Peter sat in the easy chair next to Brendan's bed. To his surprise, Assumpta climbed up into his lap and snuggled against his right arm and chest, pushing his pectoral cross out of her way. As she drifted into sleep, she sucked her thumb. Seeing Aisling gesture to her to take her thumb out of her mouth, Peter gently took her wrist in his free hand and moved her hand away from her face. As Assumpta's hand brushed against Peter's cross, she wrapped her fingers around it. With his right hand he gently stroked her long hair.

Peter, very tired now after a long and busy day, the evening flight to Cork and then ministering to Brendan, closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander over the day's events. He remembered that he hadn't texted Jaynie to confirm his safe arrival and contact details, and made a mental note that he must do that in the morning. In his mind's eye he saw a younger Brendan in his three-piece suits with a folded newspaper always under his arm, then fishing patiently in the river Angel by the bridge. He could hear the water tinkling through the stones at the shore and smell the trees behind him as he stood by Brendan. The smell of grass and heather of the Wicklow hills came to mind and the still waters of Lough Tay. The head that was against his chest belonged to his Assumpta, and the auburn hair that he stroked was hers too, and his heart swelled with love and his feelings reeled with a mixture of joy and despair in the knowledge that she did after all love him and that she had not known that he loved her to distraction. He could feel the tears trickling down his cheeks. The hair that he stroked was still his Assumpta's, but now she lay lifeless on the plinth at the mortuary. A tightness in his throat and in his chest was building. He could sense a great sob welling up inside him. He tried to breathe slowly to suppress it for fear of waking little Assumpta, but it convulsed him as he gasped for breath. Little Assumpta sat upright and looked closely at him; then using her hands wiped his tears and kissed his cheek before curling herself against his chest once more and returning to sleep.

Aisling had come over to him with a handkerchief. "What's wrong, Peter?"

"Just remembering what might have been. Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."

Peter felt a squeeze on his left hand. Turning his head, he saw Brendan looking up at him. A dreamless sleep overtook him.

When Peter awoke, it was daylight. Aisling was asleep on Brendan's bed, resting her head on his chest, and her grandad had an arm around her. Brendan was wide awake and was watching Peter. Aisling was still asleep with Siobhan in her arms.

"Peter, you were very distressed last night. Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make a scene. It's just that there were so many reminders in this room. You were there when I was at my lowest. It was you and your friends who pulled me through."

"We did work hard at it. But I have no idea what we did that eventually changed you from lonely, broken and grief stricken to serene and at peace with yourself."

"Mainly, I think it was leaving but without leaving BallyK. I don't know the details - we aren't allowed to see our files - but someone must have impressed on the bishop that I had to be given a new direction but that to transfer me would break me completely. So, study leave was the answer. And you all worked hard at keeping me in touch. That bit of distance allowed a healing to take place. Remember when you sent me away to a monastery in Waterford?"

"Yes, but 'sent' is a little strong."

"Joking. But the Abbot there told me that I would have to let go my past disappointments and failures, to stop dragging them into the present, so that they could be transfigured for the future. That's more or less what happened. I couldn't let go while I was still in BallyK, but Rome and studying and some new friends distracted me, and before I realised it, the process had begun. The Abbot also told me that if loneliness was my cross then I had to make it a prayer. At the time, I thought he was talking nonsense and said so. But he was right."

"You were very fired up when you came back."

"I was a basket case! But now, when I think back to those days, with the aid of hindsight, when I think of Assumpta I see the bright sunshine of the love of God illuminating me through her everywhere I went and in everything I thought and did. If you see her before I do, bless her before the Lord, and tell her that I love her still. But just occasionally, remembrance of what might have been gets on top of me. She is still the love of my life and I miss her so much. And I have been well blessed in my friends, especially in you, Brendan."

Later in the morning, Brendan was much stronger and the nurses got him out of bed. He was sitting in the bedside chair when Peter returned from breakfast. Peter sat next to him and took his hand.

Assumpta came over to Peter and with her head on one side looked into his eyes. She whispered, "Fr Peter, why were you crying last night?"

"I was thinking of the lady you are named after."

Assumpta exclaimed, "You knew her? Tell me what she was like!"

"She was slim and very pretty, with pale skin and long dark brown hair with a touch of red in it. The red seemed stronger in sunlight. She was not quite as tall as your Mum. She was bright and intelligent. She was very kind and did a lot to help people, but she didn't like to make a fuss of it. She was a very good friend to me. But she had a fiery temper and could be very argumentative. She would tell people exactly what she thought. Some called her feisty. But deep down she was very lonely. Her parents hadn't been happy and they died when she was still a teenager. Your grandad was one of her school teachers and he looked out for her. When I knew her, she ran the pub in the village. Your grandma Siobhan and grandad Brendan were good friends and regular customers there. Is that enough for you?"

Assumpta looked thoughtful. "Did you love her?"

"I fell head over heels in love with her."

For some reason that made Assumpta giggle. "Did you ... erm ... do what married people do?" This brought a smile from Brendan and embarrassed shushing from Aisling.

Trying to keep a straight and earnest face, he answered, "No, I didn't even get to kiss her."

"Have you got a photo of her?"

"No, I never had one."

"Why didn't you marry her?"

"She died in an accident."

"So, you became a priest instead?"

"Sort of. It was a little more complicated than that."

Fortunately this conversation got no further as Assumpta was distracted by her mobile phone ringing. Her father was calling. He had just landed.

Peter commented to Brendan, "She takes after your Siobhan, doesn't she?"

Brendan just smiled wistfully.

When Siobhan and her husband Kevin took the children down to lunch leaving Peter alone with Brendan, Peter heard his confession and gave him absolution. Later in the day, Peter celebrated Mass for them in Brendan's room. Assumpta was thrilled to be asked to serve. Brendan managed one of the scripture readings. Peter used one of the Eucharistic Prayers for Children in place of the regular, more elaborate, 'Sunday' ones because of its simplicity and directness. And it was his favourite.

-- 888 --

On his return to England, Peter sent the following letter:

_From Peter James Clifford BA BTh JCD__  
Bishop of Valentiniana  
Auxiliary Bishop in the Archdiocese of Birmingham_

_My Dear Aisling, _

_I do thank you most sincerely for contacting me so that I could visit you, and see your father for one last time in this life. I am very sad that his life is drawing to an end. I know that his death will be a huge loss for you when it comes, but I pray that your own family will be sufficient consolation. _

_I am sorry that I could only stay with you a couple of days but, despite the unhappiness of the occasion, it was delightful to see you again, and to meet your husband and daughters for the first time._

_At a very difficult time in my life, when I had not long been a priest and I was newly in Ireland, your mother and particularly your father did more than anyone to sustain me in my vocation to the priesthood. The Winding Cloth enclosed with this note was used to bind my newly consecrated hands at my ordination ceremony. Please place it in Brendan's hands at his burial as a gesture of my love and gratitude. He was like a father to me, as he had been over a greater span of years to my dear friend Assumpta Fitzgerald, who died so young and after whom your eldest daughter is named._

_Please keep in touch._

_I shall remember you all in my daily Masses and prayers. Please pray for me too._

_My love to Brendan, Assumpta, Siobhan and Kevin and to yourself_

_Yours sincerely_

† _Peter C_

8


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Epilogue**

Peter Clifford, retired bishop, was living at Aston Hall, the priests' retirement home in the Staffordshire countryside. It was mid morning, and he sat in his wheelchair, enjoying the fresh air of the garden after Mass and breakfast. He read his breviary while he waited for his visitor.

He felt the sun on his right arm and so knew that he had been praying for about 30 minutes. It amused him to position his wheelchair just inside the pointed shadow thrown by a cypress tree with a groomed triangular profile. And he knew that, positioned where he was, the sun had to move through about eight degrees to cross his wheelchair. He was not sure whether the cypress tree really had been intended as the gnomon of a sundial: no-one seemed to know – it was several decades old. The style, if that was what the sloping edge was intended to be, inclined more west than north. At one time he had placed cocktail sticks in the lawn in an attempt to calibrate it as a sundial, not that the gardener had liked this at all – the lawn mower either flattened or threw them.

Peter closed the breviary, repositioning the marker ribbon for the day's evening prayer. He stretched his back, flexing his shoulders, and looked around the garden, the large circular lawn ringed by rhododendron bushes, just past flowering now. It had rained overnight and despite the pleasant hazy sunshine there was a mist lying over the adjacent fields, through which the River Trent meandered. Traffic noise from the nearby Stafford road was a distant hum. The only identifiable sounds were the just audible slow diesel of a boat on the canal and the warning cries of the thrushes and blackbirds as a pair of magpies searched for their nests.

He looked to his right as he heard footsteps crunching the gravel path around the house; his visitor approached. He moved his wheelchair alongside one of the benches. He had known Fr Anthony Grieve for many years. Anthony had originally come to him on the advice of his Dean after he had fallen in love. The Dean had recalled a seminar given by Peter at St Mary's College, Oscott, in which he had touched on his own experiences as a young priest. They had become firm friends, and, now that Peter was retired, Anthony called on him whenever he was in the area.

Catching sight of Peter, Anthony hastened his walk. Coming to a standstill beside Peter, Anthony threw a deep bow and dramatic flourish with his arm: "My Lord of Valentiniana and Aston-by-Stone, I am deeply grateful for this audience."

They had been playing this teasing game for years, ever since Anthony found out that Peter really hated being called 'My Lord', the conventional mode of formal address for a bishop. Peter had folded his arms so that Anthony could not kiss his right hand, a courtesy that had been abandoned in the 1960s, even in jest, but played along.

"And how is the very reverend the Vice-Dean of Lichfield?"

"Oh, in transition, my Lord."

"Really?"

They abandoned the game. Anthony sat on the bench seat next to Peter and gave him a friendly punch to the shoulder.

"You're looking well, Peter."

"Kind of you to say so. I'm learning to live with my limitations."

"Are you still getting the headaches?"

He leaned away from Peter to get a good, close look at him. He tried not to see the oval hairless patch on the right side of his head, nor the still red scar that surrounded it. But the smiling sad eyes were the same as ever, albeit set in a greyer and thinner and more lined face. The beard that had been a dark grey shadow when he had last visited was now white, and long enough to move with the breeze.

"I'm learning to avoid provoking them. I don't read or write or watch TV for more than 20 minutes at a time. But I have to take the painkillers in the evening, and they just about flatten me. What's this about being in transition?"

"The Arch is moving me, down to Caversham."

"That's about as far south as the diocese goes, isn't it?"

"Yeah. So, I'm afraid that I'll not be able to get to see you as often."

"Is it a big parish?"

"About 3000, a couple of schools and a hospital; I'll have two permanent deacons and there's a retired priest in residence. But I'll also be joint secretary of the St Barnabas Society."

"That sounds interesting. But I thought they always had a convert priest for that role?"

"Yeah. They've always had a full-time priest as secretary, but there's no-one suitable available, apparently. So, they are appointing a layman, a former Methodist, and me jointly. I've been told to expect to spend a day a week at their HQ in Wolvercote, but much of the work is done on the phone anyway."

"You are going to be busy."

"I'm really excited about it. I've met the deacons and they're great guys."

"Just remember to pace yourself and take regular time away to pray!"

"Yeah, I know. I've not forgotten the pickle you got me out of."

"How are …"

Anthony noticed the tremor in Peter's right hand. He reached over and held it affectionately in his left. "Jeanette and Robert?"

"Sorry. Yes. Sorry, I'm tiring and memory plays up."

Anthony had noticed too the slight slurring that had crept into Peter's speech. "They're fine, just about to be grandparents for the third time. They've already got me to promise to do the baptism." Jeanette was the girl he had fallen in love with.

Peter smiled and nodded, but said nothing. They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, Anthony still holding Peter's trembling hand.

Sister Anne stepped out into the garden, walked over to the two priests and mouthed to Anthony, "How is he?"

Anthony mouthed back, "Tired."

Sister Anne nodded and walked back into the house.

- - - 888- - -

Anthony looked at his watch. "I'm afraid I shall have to go, Peter. I have to be back in Rugeley for a Deanery meeting at one."

Peter stirred himself from his reverie. "Can you stay for a bite of lunch?"

"Sorry, no, old bean."

Peter smiled at the allusion to PG Wodehouse. "Well thanks for coming. Lovely to see you. Can I ask a favour before you go?"

"OK, if it's quick – I've stayed too long as it is."

"Can you push me into the chapel."

"No problemo!"

Peter groaned. "You do have the strangest literary taste!"

Grinning, Anthony steered the wheelchair through the garden door into the hallway, past the main staircase, the dining room and sitting room, then turned right into the private chapel. Peter helped by pushing the heavy door open.

"There's my perch, where the fillet has been removed from the end of the pew."

Peter dropped the side of the wheelchair, and hauled himself across the seat and into the pew, while Anthony held onto the wheelchair.

"God bless, Peter. See you soon"

Anthony genuflected to the Blessed Sacrament, turned with a wave and walked to the door.

Peter called after him, "Could you tell Sister Anne where I am?"

"No problemo," came the reply as Anthony closed the chapel door behind him.

Peter smiled as he felt in his jacket pocket for his rosary beads.

- - -888 - - -

Just as he began the fifth decade of the rosary, he heard a familiar voice calling.

"Peter?"

Without conscious thought, he stood up, stepped out of the pew and looked around. There were two figures standing at the back of the chapel, one facing away from him, looking at the portrait of Blessed Dominic Barbari on the back wall. He genuflected to the tabernacle, turned and walked over towards the other, the woman.

"Peter!"

This time he recognised her voice, and her smile, head tilted slightly to one side. For a second, words failed him.

"Assumpta! What are you doing here?"

Then he became aware that he was standing unsupported, that he could walk again, and that his surroundings had greyed out, in a kind of mist. Turning about in a panic, he looked back and saw himself slumped in the pew, still with the rosary beads wound around the fingers of his right hand, and the empty wheelchair in the aisle. Realisation was dawning.

Laughing at his confusion, she said, "Welcome to eternity, Peter. And I love you! I've been waiting a long time to say that to you."

"I … I … Why …?"

The other figure, dressed he could now see in an alb, turned towards him and spoke: "She asked if she could greet you and she was given that favour."

Peter put out his hands, ran to her, pulled her towards him, and held her close, closing his eyes and fondling her hair, just as he had done by the lough years before, and rejoiced in their closeness.

"And thank you for anointing me … I've waited to say that too."

"You knew?"

"I was there! I was standing beside you. I was terrified! I was pleading with you to absolve me, but you couldn't hear. My guardian angel told me to speak to Niamh, and he spoke to Fr Mac."

"Good Lord! How long were you there?"

"I saw you throw you collar into the river. I was told about your sitting with my body at the mortuary, and about the wake, and about the Mass and committal prayers a year on."

With tears in his eyes, he tightened his hold around her shoulders and rocked her from side to side. Then, he sprang back as momentarily he felt guilty; the thought had entered his mind that he should not be doing this.

The figure in white spoke reassuringly: "Peter, be at peace. You cannot now cherish a wish or do or think anything that is wrong."

Puzzled, Peter turned to him and asked hesitantly: "Who are you?"

"My Father gave me charge of you from before you were born, to serve you and to save you. But my work is almost done: I'm here to take you home and I gladly share the joy of welcoming you with the love of your life …"

"You're my guardian angel!"

"Yes, Peter my brother, I _am_ your angel-guardian. Come, I must take you to your judgement."

"I must prepare … but I feel no apprehension."

"Your life and ministry have been your preparation. And judgment has commenced already in your heart – that is why you feel no fear. You are already among the just."

Peter, turned back for Assumpta, but she had receded into the distant mist. But he heard her voice clearly in his mind saying, "Peter, farewell, but not forever … my dearest love! Be brave and patient on your bed of sorrow. Your night of trial _will_ pass swiftly, and I'll come and wake you when it's over."

The angel put his hand on Peter's shoulder. "Come now …"

_

* * *

_

With apologies to John Henry Newman.

_If you want to know what happens next, read "The Dream of Gerontius", starting from the third phase, at _

http: / / www. ccel .org /n/newman/gerontius/gerontius.htm .

_Even better, listen to part 2 of the oratorio "The Dream of Gerontius" by Edward Elgar._

**Notes**

1. Matthew Ch 28 v 29: He answered, 'I will not go' but afterwards thought better of it and went.

2. The quotation from Paul Burke is from 'The Life of Reilly' by Paul Burke, Hodder & Stoughton Ltd (2007), ISBN-10: 0340734477.

3. Faculties: permission from the diocesan bishop for a priest to exercise his ministry in the diocese.

4. Exeat: formal leave of absence (Latin - let him go out)

5. Bishop Costello: I have used the character, one of Fr MacAnally's golfing friends, who introduced himself when checking into Fitzgeralds in episode 2.1 "For One Night Only". 'Costello' is a phonetic anglicisation of the Irish 'Goisdealbhaigh', in turn an Irish version of a Norman name from the 11th century, and common in Mayo, Galway and Dublin. There are several common variants, e.g. Costolloe, Costelo, Costellow and Costillo.

6. 'Ad clerum', literally 'to the clergy', means a letter from a bishop to the priests and deacons of his diocese, as distinct from a pastoral letter, which is to the people of the diocese and usually read out at Mass in place of the homily/sermon.

7. The words of the _Pie Jesu_ are: _Pie Jesu, Qui tollis peccata mundi, Dona eis requiem. Agnus Dei, Dona eis requiem sempiternam_. In English: _Merciful Jesus, Who takes away the sins of the world, Grant them rest. Lamb of God, Grant them everlasting rest_. (See Wikipedia for its derivation from the last two lines of the prayers _Dies Irae_ and _Agnus Die_ from the Latin funeral Mass.) The _Pie Jesu_ does not itself form part of the funeral Mass, though several composers have included it in their settings.)

8. Valentiniana: one of the titular sees, defunct ancient dioceses, given by the Catholic Church to bishops who are not the head of a diocese. Valentiniana is the modern Valenciennes, Belgium (I think).


End file.
